A Torrid Affair
by Saphron
Summary: Alanna's getting steamy with her royal lover extraordinaire, but between her talking cat, thief in love, the mysterious Shang Hawk, Delia the court flirt, and Gary and Raoul, it's a wonder their relationship can survive! Warning: explicit sexual content
1. Chapter 1: Aftermath of the Bubblebath

**A Torrid Affair**

**By Saphron**

_Summary: _The day after Alanna has sex with Jon, she starts to wonder—what's up with the crazy world of court love affairs? And as things heat up—and cool off—with the prince, the king of thieves seems to provide a strange comfort, and perhaps, an alternative lover? After sex, drama, fights, making up, and make-up sex, who will she chose in the end, the crown prince or the thief king?

**Warning:** This fic contains some adult sexual content that may not be suitable for younger readers.

_A/N: _I'm still vaguely working on "Homeward Bound: An Alternate Version of ITHOTG," for any loyal readers still out there, but I thought I'd take a little break and work on something new for awhile. It's the same time/setting/main chars (notice a trend in where my interests lie?) so I hope you enjoy.

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Chapter 1: Aftermath of the Bubblebath

_(Setting_: ITHOTG, The day after Alanna's 17th birthday…ie: the morning after she has sex with Jonathan)

Dark tendrils of Alanna's coppery hair swirled lightly in the bathwater, attracting tiny clumps of bubbles that happened to float on by and stick to her red main. A pert, freckled little nose peaked above the suds, breathing deeply the aromatic scent of warm vanilla sugar, her favorite bath-soap. Scented soaps were a luxury in Crous, imported from Carthak as they were, and normally Alanna was content with the standard palace issue brown scrub bar doled out to pages and squires every few months. But today, she needed the comforting scent of warm vanilla sugar to wash over her new womanly skin—because last night, she had lost her virginity. With Jonathan, of all people. The crown prince to the kingdom. Her knight-master. The court's infamous ladies' man. And…her best friend.

Obviously, she needed some serious thinking time after such a momentous milestone in her life.

Accustomed to rising with the dawn to practice with Coram's old broadsword, she had awoken before the sleeping prince that morning, and snuck softly out of his bed and into her own room. Part of her had been tempted to stay snuggled in the warm crook of his arm, especially in the chilly morning air that threatened to bite her toes if they so much as dared peep out from beneath the warm down-feather comforter thrown over the two naked bodies. But another, bigger, part of her wanted nothing more than to escape to the relative peace and safety of her own room, where she wouldn't have to face the extreme awkwardness of waking up in bed next to someone for the first time. She needed time to think, to mentally process and accept what had happened mere hours before. It wasn't that she regretted making love to Jon—far from it—but she simply needed time to _think_. And besides…what if it was Jon who regretted their night together? Or what if he merely didn't care at all?

No, it was best to have left, and stealthily. It took all her careful consideration not to cuss when she pulled back the covers, exposing her unclothed body to the stinging air. He had let out a tiny inarticulate moan, still asleep, as she pulled away from him and slipped quietly to the floor. Treading softly, she had made it to the smaller bedroom attached to his that she called her very own, got dressed, and headed off to her classes and squire's duties for the day. She didn't encounter him all morning, but when lunchtime rolled around she feared she might run into him in the mess hall. Luckily, he had had a diplomacy meeting with some border lords, which had even kept him too occupied during the afternoon to drop by the squire's training rooms to observe the squires in action, as he was sometimes accustomed to do. She had made a point to take routes she knew he was unlikely to traverse, and so far she had been successful. Now classes and training were done for the day, and she was free to eat dinner with her friends (albeit quietly; "what's up Alan? You seem…lost in thought," Gary had questioned earlier) and then draw a nice long bath to relax and think.

And Mithros was that bath feeling good! She finally had some time to herself to contemplate the fact that _she was no longer a virgin_.

_Virginity is an interesting thing_, she mused to herself, while watching soap bubbles infused with the essence of vanilla extract and sticky brown cane sugar drift along lazily. _It feels like society prizes a woman's chastity more than any of her other virtues. Women aren't supposed to have sex before marriage, according to Etiquette Master, and men are supposed to value and defend the honors of "flowers of chastity." Yet it seems like all men try and do is seduce women, and women seduce men! No one follows the court rules about not sleeping together…yet no one can admit it. It's like some complicated, elaborate battle and everyone is strategizing on how to gain the enemy's camp without letting anyone know their plans.._.

Lost in these thoughts, she didn't even hear the door swing open, until the man who had turned the knob coughed politely to attract her attention…while cocking an eyebrow amusedly, as was his custom.

"JON! I'm naked in the bath, get out!' Alanna shrieked in surprise, vainly trying to cover herself with a retinue of vanilla bubbles.

"Why? It's nothing I haven't seen before. Besides, far from encouraging me to get out, the fact that you're naked in the bath rather likely inspires me to stay…" he grinned, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe and giving her an apprising look that practically purred his approval.

Alanna blushed, feeling distinctly embarrassed. Jon had seen her last night _in the dark_—it was evening time now, but still far too light out for her comfort!

Jon laughed, clearly amused by her discomfort. Reading her mind, he said, "Don't worry, I like everything I see…I like it so much, in fact, that I'm feeling distinctly…dirty. Perhaps I need a bath too?"

Alanna blinked twice, before comprehension dawned on her. "Jon, _no_, you can't, we can't, I mean, there's not enough room!" Her cheeks felt like they were on fire—partly because she was embarrassed, partly because she was vaguely turned on by Jon's suggestions. The image of him shirtless and covered in warm scented bubbles popped into her mind and refused to dislodge itself. Mithros! Is this what sex did to people, make them think of naked torsos at the most inappropriate times? Good grief…what had she gotten herself into…

"Alright, alright," he chuckled, following up with a sigh, "I'll leave you to your soaking, though I still think we could _make_ room…but if you insist. Get out soon though, I want to talk with you." Shooting her one last furtive glance, he trotted out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Alanna exhaled the breath she didn't even know she had been holding. Mithros. That was an ordeal. Wandering too obsessively for comfort what he meant by "talk," she washed the last of the bubbles out of her hair and died herself off. Tucking the ends of her towel together, she exited the tiny bathroom, smiling shyly as she looked up at the Prince perched on the chair by his desk.

Leaving his papers, he strode over to Alanna and kissed her lightly on the lips, tucking his hands softly on the small of her back. Butterflies churned in her tummy, and she was more than aware of the thinness of the towel that was the only layer of cloth separating him from her naked body. "Mmm…you smell good." Jon practically grunted, moving his lips to kiss her neck and catching a whiff of the lingering baths soap soaked into her hair.

"It's warm vanilla sugar, imported from Carthak. Of course, it's more expensive than the regular scrub soap they pass out around her, but occasionally it's quite nice for long baths. Did you know that in Carthak the emperor has one hundred slaves to wait on him while he takes a bath, to make sure his water never gets cold? Myles told me that the other day while we were playing chess. Of course, he beat me again, but I checked him once before he did, I think I'm getting better at the game, though I'm still hopeless in using my rooks…" Alanna babbled, feeling her brain go completely fuzzy. Damn it, why did Jon have this effect on her!

"Alanaa…"

"Yes?"

"Why are you talking about Myles and chess pieces while I'm kissing you? "

"Um…"

"That's what I thought. Shhh…" Suddenly he deepened his kisses, making them harder, stronger, fiercer. She felt his arms pull her towards him, and the noticeable press of his manhood lodged against her thigh.

"W-wait, Jon, I-I need my, um, my charm, I took it off to take my bath, it's made of metal, I didn't want it to get rusty…"

Jon growled, pulling away reluctantly. "Fine, hurry," he muttered with half-lidded eyes, practically drugged with passion.

As Alanna dashed into the bathroom and pulled the pregnancy charm over her head, she dimly wandered if this was going to be the norm from now on. Would they come home from their respective days at school or work, and instantly hop into bed together? It all seemed so sudden…one day she was a virgin, having experiencing nothing less innocent than the occasional kiss…the next day, she was leaping out of tubs and into the arms of the crown prince…suddenly, a thought struck her. Were things perhaps moving just a tad too quickly? Jon's confidence—some might call it cockiness—was sexy, yes, but what were his intentions behind it? They hadn't even talked about last night before they were jumping into an immediate replay. In the cold glare of the bathroom light, Alanna regained her senses, and exited the room with the towel clutched firmly to her side, determined to slow things down a bit until she could access where Jon stood and how exactly he felt about her.

Jon strode towards her, but she held out a hand against his chest to stop him. He nearly stumbled, pulling his arms forward, leaned against the wall above her head, to keep his balance. She read the expression of _huh?_ Inside his eyes, and bit down on the anxieties churning within her gut.

"Um, we should probably go to bed soon, we have a long day tomorrow," Alanna muttered, not meeting his gaze. Saying no to the longing in those deep azure eyes was going to be difficult indeed.

"If you mean go to bed _together_, then I'm all for that plan," Jon shot back, still leaning against the wall, trapping her close to him.

Alanna blushed fiercely, and ducked out from under his arms rather than reply. Jon in turn, thinking her blushing was a sign of maidenly coyness, tugged the end of her towel off of her, grinning until she shrieked at him and clutched it back. Except…it wasn't really a playful shriek. More like, a bobcat whose just had her cub stolen kind of shriek.

"What?" he blinked, genuinely confused. One minute he had been kissing her neck and the next she had turned cold as snow, and stood glaring as fiercely as she was blushing.

"I—I need sleep," she said, jutting her lower lip out. "And you can't just go around clutching towels off people!"

Jon shook his head, "you're impossible, Alanna of Trebond, but I suppose I knew that before I started making love to you."

Plucking up her courage—she was dying to know—"Is, is that what we're doing then? Making love?"

"Of course," he asked, perplexed, "what did you think this was? Just sex?"

"I don't know…I mean, er, you do have a bit of a reputation…"

"Alanna!"

"What?"

"Seriously? You seriously think that's all I'm looking for with you, just, just a girl for the night to play with, nothing more?"

"I don't know Jon!"

"Well is that what _you_ want then? Nothing serious, just a romp in the hay?"

"What?? Obviously not!"

"Well then quit acting like you do," he snapped, striding away from her, clearly upset.

"I'm _not_ acting like that," she retorted, stamping her foot.

"Um, let's see—sneaking out of my bed early this morning, ignoring me all day, and then snapping at me when I just tried to kiss you. Kind of sounds to me like you regret last night." The fire in his voice had turned chilly; suddenly he didn't seem angry so much as deadly serious.

Alanna winced; standing alone, the facts didn't exactly speak in her favor. But how was she supposed to know how the whole sex thing worked? It's not like she had a ton of experience in the area! Hugging her arms to her chest—it was cold in the room, she was wet and wearing nothing but a thin cotton towel—she felt her teeth chatter, though whether it was truly because of the cold or because of something else she didn't want to know. "Jon…you know I have no clue how this whole, thing, is supposed to work…I mean, I don't, not a lot of experience, you know, I don't know…how you feel, or how I feel, it's all just so…confusing. And it's all going so _fast._"

Jon sighed, "Look, I'm sorry. I know this is all new to you, I just got a little swept away, I didn't mean to rush you. But I want you to know something right now, Alanna of Trebond. Alanna, please, look at me."

She lifted her gaze, and stared into his deep blue eyes. He leaned closer, and brushing his lips next to her ear, softly murmured, "it can never be 'just sex' between us Alanna. You're my closest friend and my squire, and I would never do anything to jeopardize our friendship. Casual sex would kind of fall into the category of jeopardizing that. I think things are moving quickly because we already know each other so well and already are so close…normally I wouldn't say this to a girl the day after sleeping with her, but it feels right with you, and I'm not just messing around. I'm in this for real. I'm in this for keeps. So you better be to, 'k?"

Touched by his words, all Alanna could do was nod in response, and follow Jon to the bed as he gently took her hand and led her there.

--Saphron

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_A/N:_ I don't have my books with me in college; sorry if I get some fact wrong, please just politely let me know. Thanks a bunch.

Oh, and anyone know the exact date of Alanna's birthday? I feel like it's sometime in July, but I could be wrong…

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	2. Chapter 2: Insecurities

**A Torrid Affair**

**By Saphron**

**A/N/Warning**: I wouldn't exactly classify this fic as "erotica," but remember that it contains a wealth of sexually explicit material, so please read with caution. Thank you.

_PS:_ Thank you, madam reviewers :)

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**Chapter 2 – Insecurities**

Alanna trotted away from the training courts after besting Douglas in an impromptu duel feeling vaguely…unsatisfied. Of course, she had performed nearly perfectly, executing all her sword moves with grace and speed, and yet…she didn't feel like she had accomplished much. Meaning no insult to Douglas, who was a perfectly capable squire and able fighter, but she still felt almost…bored, by their battle. She was the best of all the squires, that much was clear, and could even get the upper-hand on a few rusty knights. Training had become a little less exciting than it used to be, mostly because she had mastered the basics and then some, and now no longer had a challenge to face.

_Unless I count the challenge __**off**__ the training courts…_ Alanna mused to herself, fingering Lightning's hilt as she made her way towards her bedroom to retire for the evening. By which she was referring to Prince Jonathan, knight master and lover extraordinaire.

It had been nearly a week since her birthday, (lately it seemed like Alanna had fallen into the habit of measuring all her time since that one eventful day…as in, it's been two days since my birthday, today is the fourth day after my birthday, tomorrow will be the fifth day after my birthday, etc.), and things were going…surprisingly slowly. She had still snuck out of his bed the morning after the second and third nights they had slept together (a fact which annoyed and possibly insulted Jon to no end), still feeling a tad awkward and embarrassed by her nudity in the harsh glare of the morning sun, but by the fourth night she had deemed to stay (a fact which made Jon very happy indeed—and very happy to show his gratitude in the form of a plethora of light butterfly kisses.)

They actually hadn't had sex though, since that first night. They had just been sleeping together. There was a qualitative difference.

After experiencing the gambit of Jon's emotions—from mere friendship to brotherly love to ardent passion—Alanna was a little shocked by his newfound tenderness, previously unseen before except perhaps for brief moments during the Tusaine War. The looks he gave her now across the room at balls and meetings seemed to gleam with secretive thoughts, and yet when they were alone together, he was all gentleness, all…coddling. It was strange to hear him laugh and tease her mercilessly—i.e., treat her like just another of the guys—while they were among the company of others, and yet when they were alone…it was like he became an entirely new person. The teasing, the laughter in his eyes, was still there, but it was softer, lighter…sweeter. It scared her, just a little bit.

Alanna had no way of knowing that Jon was nearly as freaked out by what was developing between them as she was. He could tell she was lost, which was only natural. Before him, she had been entirely innocent in the ways of love, and he didn't want to scare her off. He decided to approach the whole torrid affair like he would an injured wild horse—softly, so as not to frighten it, with kind words and soothing hands, taking things slowly. Very slowly.

It was difficult at times for him, when the newfound passion he felt for his squire flared up inside him, and he couldn't help but react as a man to her womanoly conture. He had to restrain himself from grabbing her and pushing her against a wall to deepen his kisses and express the heat he felt inside. But almost instinctively, perhaps after years of being friends with her, he knew how she'd react and back away if he came on too strong. So he retreated, reigned in his feelings (feelings he was still figuring out—love, or mere infatuation? Who knew? He was surprised as sin to find his "boyish" squire so attractive), and merely cuddled with her at night, letting her get used to his presence beside her in bed. Giving her time and space to adjust, as any respectful lover should.

Of course, Alanna had no inkling of these churning thoughts behind Jon's cloudy blue eyes. She was simply confused. One day, he had insisted that sex was "meant to happen" between them, and had tugged away at her bodice strings like they were the wrappings of his new Midwinter present. The next…he just wanted to spoon.

Spoon. She had learned that word from him. That word that meant tucking her folded body, back side pressed against his chest, underneath the light pressure of his arms, so his chin rested near the back of her neck, and her butt pressed delicately against his thighs. It was a sweet embrace, something she had never experienced before, and she liked that fact that it didn't involve eye-contact. Eye contact was scary. It rang of a degree of intimacy she still wasn't comfortable yet, despite having already exposed every inch of her body to Jon's scrutiny.

Speaking of exposing her body…that was another thing Alanna had a hard time reconciling. Normally, she had simply thought of her physical body in terms of its capacity to fight as a warrior. I.e. coolly recognizing the fact that she had skinny arms and legs, which meant less strength yet more dexterity and speed while in battle. Her thinness had only bothered her before in terms of feeling inadequately strong compared to her peers in training. Now she wondered about the more aesthetic aspects of her body—was she too skinny for Jon's tastes? And in the places where she wasn't skinny, her butt, for example, did Jon find that appealing or merely too…round?

She had noticed (discretely, of course), what men's unclothed bodies looked like when she used to sit on the banks by the river where her fellow pages and friends used to swim, and she couldn't help but observe that men's butts were quite a bit, well, _flatter_ than hers. And (she had recently gained from textual experience), much firmer. She knew, of course, that women in general had more body fat then men and curvier figures, but she had had little experience seeing naked women. All the court ladies were swathed in layers of fabric for their overdone ball gowns, although some of the flower sellers in George's rogue court had a tendency to dress mighty scantily. In truth though, she had little idea over how her body compared to other women.

Reaching her room and shutting the door with a satisfying click, she contemplated the enigmatic world of court love affairs. Beauty was something altogether different than sexiness, she realized, tugging off her boots and tunic. The court women, with their elaborate hair coifs, sparkling jewels, painted faces, and perfect breeding, were undeniably beautiful, in the classical sense of the word. Like ancient paintings perfectly preserved, they imbued a sense of aesthetic wonder to all who beheld them. But their bodies…while clearly slender and petite (thanks in no small part to the restrictive hold of whale-bone corsets), were altogether a mystery to Alanna. Dresses hid blemishes, wrinkles, stretch marks, moles, hair, freckles, and a myriad of other potentially unattractive items. Alanna had vaguely found herself wondering—and if she had admitted it to herself, hoping—that Lady Delia had such flaws, for back in the days before the Tusaine War when Jonathan and her had been sleeping together, the woman never seemed to come into his bedroom during daylight hours. Once, when they had been particularly loud in the room next door (a time when Alanna had no choice but to grimace in jealous agony and clutch a pillow over her ears), she had overheard Delia shriek, "Jon! Blow out the candle, I don't like that harsh light…" before they had lapsed into their usual moans and murmurs.

Thankfully, Alanna was graced with smooth skin, a slender build, and only a smattering of light bronze-colored freckles along her arms (the body part most exposed to sunlight). Her body had still changed a lot, however, since the days her and Thom were virtually indistinguishable. She figured her breasts were probably a tad smaller than average (a fact she was normally grateful for), and her arms and legs too muscular to ever really be called delicate. But she liked the firmness of her thighs; they were a testimony to her strength, and there was no way she'd trade muscle for larger breasts or softer limbs, not by a long shot. _Still_, she wondered, scrutinizing her naked form in the mirror before her, _does Jon care that my hair down there is red? I wonder if brunette women have brown hair, and blond women blond hair…_

It was while she pondering such musings that she heard the secret knock on the shared door between the squire and knight master's room that meant Jon was not alone. "Are you decent, squire?" He bellowed out, just in case Alanna had forgotten the knock code and truly was indecent—which of course she was, at the moment.

"Just a moment!" she gasped out, frantically rushing to throw on her breast band and tunic. "I'm still getting dressed!"

"Oh, no one cares Alan," Gary bellowed from Jon's side of the door, "we're all guys, it doesn't matter if you don't have your shirt on. We're coming in—hey! Jon, what gives?"

She dimly heard a slight scuffle that indicated Jon had physically prevented Gary from entering, which Alanna was overwhelmingly grateful for. She couldn't risk her secret being exposed!

Faithful mewed as she nearly stepped on him while hoping on one foot to get her other foot through one pant-leg. She gave up on wearing shoes and burst through Jon's door looking slightly flushed but all together presentable. Her loyal cat trotted along behind, scooching through the swinging door before it fell shut. Faithful couldn't help but notice that his mistress had been absent from her bed for a few days now, and if she was going to be moving into the Prince's room he'd make sure she didn't leave him behind! _Maybe I should get Alanna to move my catnip into here…_ he purred to himself, twining his tail around Raoul to say hello.

Gary was rubbing his shoulder and glaring at Jon conspicuously, "geez Jon, you need to relax. Too much time in the stateroom has clearly stressed you out." Gary snatched Faithful away from Raoul's feet and held him up under the shoulders as if he were holding a human baby and didn't quite know what to do with it, "what, no greeting for me? First Jon practically knocks me to the ground, now you're favoring Raoul? When can a guy ever get a break around here?" He grumbled.

"Well you can start by holding my cat properly," squire 'Alan' piped up, "then maybe you'll earn yourself some respect. Put him on your shoulder, that's where he likes to sit best."

"I know, I know," Gary rolled his eyes, but complied with a smile. "Anyway, we just came in here to tell you guys some exciting news. There's going to be a new guest at the palace tomorrow morning, my father told me over dinner."

"Who?" Alanna asked curiously, perching on Jon's bed and swinging her legs.

"Oh, you'll see," Raoul intoned with a twinkle in his eye. "Someone I think you'll be _very_ interested to meet!"

Inwardly, Alanna groaned—she had an inkling of what the boys meant by 'interesting.' Buxom, blond, and ruby-lipped, came to mind. "Great," she responded dryly, "can't wait."

"Oh cheer up, mate," Gary demanded, clapping one hand on her shoulder, "I promise you you'll like them. If not, I'll…lick Faithful's fur!"

_Excuse me?_ Faithful yowled scathingly—if cats _could_ yowl 'scathingly,' that is—_um, no one, but __**no one**__, is licking me, got that?_

Alanna tried to stifle a giggle as Faithful leapt off Gary's shoulders and retreated back to the safety of Raoul. _I never should have left Alanna's room_, he grumbled to himself, _apparently doing so is just asking to be licked_.

"Relax Faithful," Gary laughed, not being able to understand the cat's yowl but guessing nonetheless (Faithful had always been an unusually intelligent pet, after all). "I don't expect such a task will ever be necessary, so confident I am that little Alan here will simply adore tomorrow's guest."

"You really will, Alan," Raoul confirmed, standing up and latching a large hand on Gary's shoulder. "Come on now mate, let's leave these two to their peace, we've delivered our news."

With a shrug Gary followed, explaining under his breath that he obviously never intended to actually lick cat-fur…

Jon smiled and locked the door behind them, "what a riot those guys are. Still, I wonder who they could possible mean? I'm surprised they know court gossip and I don't. Why didn't my father tell me? Though I suppose if it truly is some beautiful court lady he couldn't really be bothered. That's something my mother would be far more interested to hear I believe."

Alanna picked up Faithful to pet him, trying to swallow her jealousy to hear Jon call some unknown, possibly nonexistent, court lady "beautiful." Without jewels, face-paint, an elaborate hair style, and flowing dress…could Jon ever see her as beautiful?

"So how was your day?" he asked, pecking her lightly on the forehead before beginning to take off his boots and disrobe. The question was perfectly benign and yet—it was almost _too_ benign. It was the kind of small talk old married couples made, not young lovers conducting an illicit affair beneath the noses of the entire court. And a chaste peck on the forehead? Didn't exactly scream passion. Suddenly, Alanna felt awkward, like maybe Jon _wasn't_ attracted to her physically after all, and that's why they'd merely been sleeping—as opposed to _sleeping_—together after all. She felt heat rise to her face in torrents—she hadn't exposed her body to him to be judged and found wanting!

She didn't need to say anything before Jonathan could read the anger etched on her face and in the way she violently jumped off the bed when he sat down on it, as if she wanted nothing more than to escape him. What was going on? All he had done was ask a simple question!

"I'm going to bed. My _own_ bed," she snapped out, marching with long strides to the connecting door. "Come on, Faithful."

_Good thing I didn't move my catnip after all,_ the cat purred to himself, following obediently for once in his life.

"Hey Alanna—Alanna! What's wrong, where are you going?"

"I just told you!" She bellowed from her own room, slamming the door shut.

With an exasperated groan, Jon pulled his body off the bed and yanked the door open. Mithros this was hard, he felt like he was always doing something to upset Alanna. And he thought she'd be easier to handle than other girls, knowing none of those ridiculous court games of playing hot and cold! Yet she was oddly more difficult in many ways—for instance, she was the only girl Jon had ever been with who had actually _marched_ out a room he was in and stormed off. Girls had played coy, of course, slipping out with a sly wink, but they had never actually slammed doors in his face or bellowed at him. He found himself decidedly annoyed (though deep down, rather intrigued by the challenge).

"_What_?" He demanded, crossing his arms in front of his chest in a defensive stance. "What have I done _now?_"

"Uch, nothing!" Alanna hollered, glaring fiercely.

"Nothing? _Nothing?_ So why are you mad?" Jon groaned, confused and frustrated.

"No, that's the problem! You've done absolutely nothing but, but treat me like your little sister!" she said, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice.

Jon blinked, "that's why you're mad? Because I haven't pressured you to move too quickly? Because I haven't been a total pig and insisted on sex every night? Is that what you want? Seriously?"

Alanna shifted her weight uncomfortably; once again, standing alone, the facts didn't speak in her favor. Her mouth hung open, but the words didn't come out. She was still reconciling her thoughts when Jon closed the small distance between them.

"Because if that's what you really want from me Alanna…that's what I can do," he intoned darkly, letting his heated breath alight next to her ear. In an instant his mouth was upon hers, kissing fiercely—too fiercely. His hands shoved her almost roughly against his hard body, as his tongue probed her mouth intensely. She felt heat stream from her face to her loins and back again, but she knew something felt off. With a shove she separated them, breathing hard, harder than him.

"Jon, stop it!" She squeaked out, frightened by his overwhelming masculinity. How was it that she wasn't the least bit afraid to get hit by a boy during swordplay, yet couldn't stand how unbalanced it made her to be handled the way Jon touched her? How could she feel both exhilarated and frightened by this man?

"But that's what you wanted," he droned softly, eyes half-lidded, "isn't it? You don't like when I'm gentile, when I take things slow. So let's speed things up."

"It's not that," she said quickly, rushing to get the words out before he closed the distance between them again, "it's just…I can't tell how, how, I mean if you like the way I…look."

Jon cocked an eyebrow, "that's what you think? That I haven't been making a move all week because I don't find you incredibly sexy?"

"I don't know," she murmured, refusing to meet his gaze.

A laugh erupted from his throat and quickly turned into a fit of mirth. She blinked at him—why was he laughing at her? This was a serious concern! "Mithros Alanna, I never thought you'd be the type of girl who'd be insecure about her body, like all the other court ladies I know! I always figured you'd be the kind of woman who would say, this is my body, go to hell if you don't like it!"

Alanna frowned, insulted that he had compared her to those whimpering women who obsessed over every superficial detail of their appearance. Then the irony hit her—she _was_ acting like one of those insecure court ladies, judging and critiquing and viewing herself in the light of a man's opinion. It was incredibly stupid. Jon was right, it was her body, and if he didn't like it than tough cookies for him! She should love herself no matter what he thought, and she was being ridiculous to ever believe otherwise.

She matched his laughter with that of her own, grinning shyly at the absurdity of Jon pointing out the insecurities she didn't even realize she had had. They laughed together for awhile, until Jon strode over to her side and—gently this time—wrapped his arms around her. "For the record though…I do find you _incredibly_ to my tastes." He wasn't lying just to make her feel better—he genuinely liked the well-toned contour of her body. She wasn't as soft as the other court women, but it was in a good way. She was still undeniably feminine—her butt and breasts and triangular base of her hips told him that much—but still strong. He felt like he could squeeze her without breaking her; a novel feeling he very much enjoyed. "But I suppose you don't believe me—I guess I'll just have to prove it."

And with a flourish, he swept her into her bed and proceeded to prove _exactly_ how much he liked her beautiful body.

--Saphron

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A/N: Who is the mysterious guest arriving tomorrow? Are they sleeping together now, or just sleeping together? What major problem will plague their affair next? Find out next chapter :).  



	3. Chapter 3: Enter the Hawk

**A Torrid Affair**

**By Saphron **

_A/N:_ Shae's name actually does mean "hawk" in Gaelic (the language of the Celts), just FYI. Interesting tidbit, I thought.

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** Chapter 3 – Enter the Hawk**

The whisper whipped like a lash throughout the palace halls, echoing along banister stairs and kitchen counters, past hunting dogs and a trestle of the Queen's ladies, even dodging between a pair of bedpan-ridden healers-in-training. Nothing could be kept quiet in the palace for long, least of all the arrival of such a rare and exciting guest: the Shang Hawk.

"I hear he can kill five men with a single blow!" One trainer said to the other, tipping his bedpan into the washing tub.

"You're so wrong, it's ten men. I have a cousin who knows someone who knows some else the Shang Hawk saved from some bandits, and _he_ said it was ten men!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Mithros, I should have been a knight-in -training instead of a lousy healer-in-training…then I'd have been able to train with him."

"You mean, it's not just a visit, he's staying to help train the pages and squires?"

"Yep, that's what I hear. They are so lucky. I can't believe we have to scrub bedpans while _they_ get to watch the Shang Hawk kill ten men in a single blow!"

"Actually, I'm not sure that's really possible," a voice called out from the doorway. "Though if you ever figure out a way to do it, be sure to let me know."

"Oh it's possible alright, my cousin is no liar—who are you, anyway? If you're sick and need Duke Baird, he's visiting the Queen right now, she's been feeling ill lately, but he'll back in a bit if you care to wait."

"Thank you," the man nodded politely, stepping in the door and giving the room a precursory look around, "though I actually just came to pick up some healing salve for bruises. I predict the demand for such medicine may increase in the next few days."

The younger page pointed to a shelf by the window without looking up from his bedpan, "help yourself." When he next looked up, the man was gone.

--

Alanna sighed dreamily as she curled herself tighter into the space between her body and Jon's, savoring the feeling of waking up naturally, lazily, peacefully. Without opening her eyes, she slowly started regaining consciousness, and re-living memories of last night.

The second time they had slept together—_really_ slept together, not just slept together—had been even better than the first! The first time had been…Mirthros, what were the words to describe it? Exhilarating, exciting, shocking, scary. Emotionally, she felt completely overcharged, like she had been zapped with lightening and was bristling with static electricity. Physically, she wouldn't lie, it hurt.

Jon was…well…she supposed she could call it, _blessed_, in the manhood department. Which theoretically, Alanna knew (from her days eavesdropping on the men by the River Drell who told raunchy stories and jokes), was a good thing. But for innocent little Alanna, it had provided more of a hindrance than a help during her first time having sex. Luckily, deliberately, Jon had taken things _very_ slowly, and made love to her extremely gently. He had used his hands to get her used to the sensation of being entered, prepping her for the next step of the night. And although she had been nigh shocked to discover him doing so, she couldn't say no to the pleasure he brought her by bringing his mouth to her womanhood. Alanna knew now the term for such behavior—foreplay—and upon retrospect, just how much time exactly Jon had spent on the foreplay portion of their first evening together.

And he had spent just as much time on it their second night together as well, generating, if it were even possible, even better results. Sex still wasn't exactly comfortable—though again, Jon made every effort to go slow and be gentle—but it certainly hurt less, a fact Alanna was more than grateful for. Mistress Cooper had warned her, of course, that her first few times might sting a bit, but gradually the sensations would start feeling better and better…a fate Alanna couldn't wait to experience.

It was like all these feelings she had been building up for him over the years had finally come to a head and found a means of expressing themselves. She could never tell him directly that she loved his confidence and regal poise, or his mirthful laugh that cheered all who heard it. And recently, how she adored the lipswell of his curved mouth, and the unruly dark hair that hung before his eyes, and the strong muscular arms that made her dizzy to have enfolded around her body. Yet by kissing those very places with her lips, she managed to convey her inner thoughts, and tell him exactly how she felt.

Jon, in turn, was able to do the same, bestowing gifts of his kisses on every inch of skin; in the crook of her elbow, in the crease between her breasts, on the softest spot of her inner thigh…all tender places that, when kissed, generated a physical heat that cursed throughout her slender frame.

She never thought she'd say this, but she was having a difficult time focusing in class, so busy was she thinking about Jonathan and her in bed together! Mathematics just lost whatever tenuous hold it had had on her interest when put up against visual daydreams of the Prince's rock-hard stomach.

Training, too, had been boring of late, so easy it was for her to best her fellow squires. If it weren't for the Prince, Alanna suspected she might have nothing worthwhile in the way of entertainment to occupy her time.

Fortunately, she did have him, though she also had class and training to attend to at the moment. Nimbly, she hopped out of bed and dressed herself as Jon started to arise.

"Mmm, come back to bed, it's cold without you," he murmured sleepily, too content watching Alanna shimmy into her clothes to move.

"Sorry, training practice," she smiled at him, patting Faithful (_mm, scratch behind the ears,_ he purred audibly, just to her, _though_, he amended,_ I suppose now that you and the Prince are, what do you kids call it these days, an 'item'? Yes, well, I suppose now that you'll be spending so much time with him, I better make him privy to my thoughts as well…otherwise you won't ever talk to me for fear of sounding like a crazy person talking to her pet cat… ) _as she slung the Lightning's belt on, ignoring her cat's ramblings. "See you later."

Jon groaned, reaching to pet Faithful—who had taken it upon himself to sleep at the end of their bed—just as an excuse to latch onto her hand, "wait, one kiss before you go."

Alanna made a face, but complied, leaning down to kiss him. Sweetly, she parted his mouth with her tongue, and captured his bottom lip lightly between hers, tugging ever softly before letting go. She then opened her mouth wider, and made her tongue touch the tip of his, dancing with it for a bit before reluctantly pulling away and finishing the kiss with a soft press of her closed lips against his slightly ajar mouth.

"Mithros," he whispered, sucking in a deep breath, "I can't believe what a natural you are that."

"At what?" Alanna blinked, stopping in her tracks despite being mere inches away from the door.

"_That_. Kissing. I can't believe you've never kissed anyone besides me before, you're so good at it."

Two spots of color blossomed on the apples of her cheeks, causing Jon to smile at her with half-lidded eyes drunk with the lingering taste of her kiss. "Well it's true. I'm impressed. Most people are so sloppy their first few times."

"Um," was all Alanna could manage at the moment, "thanks."

_If you two are done being all lovely-dovey, mind if someone opens the window to let me out? I need to use the facilities, if you catch my drift_. Faithful interrupted, shooting Alanna a meaningful look she couldn't interpret. Somehow though, she had the feeling it didn't have much to do with excrement etiquette.

"Uh, Alanna?" Jon queried.

"Yes, Jon?" she responded, opening the window for her cat.

"Did—did Faithful just imply he needed to go use the bathroom? Er, I mean, the outside, but for a cat the outside is the bathroom…Mirthros. The point is, was the cat just _talking_?"

"Yes, Jon," Alanna repeated pertly, letting the inflection lilt her voice. "He's a very intelligent pet, isn't he?"

_Damn straight, and don't you forget it! Now if you would excuse me…_

And with a hop out the window, the cat was gone, Alanna following in his footsteps. She waved goodbye to a still confused prince ("I can't believe she has a _talking_ cat…why did I not know this before?") and trotted happily to her first lesson of the day. Swinging her arms and whistling under her breath, the thought didn't even occur to her until she was almost at the training room door:

Technically, Jon hadn't been her first kiss…

George had been.

The thought froze her in her footsteps where she stood. Jon thought he was her first kiss…an idea she probably shouldn't disillusion him of. After all, it was perfectly harmless that he kept on believing it to be true, right?

Famous last words.

--

"Squires! Line up!" The training master bellowed, as the assemblage of teenage boys (and lone girl) scrambled to order themselves. "I'm pleased to report that we have a very special guest here in the palace whose agreed to work with you runts for a little awhile, in hopes of turning you into real fighters, and not the pansy little girls you all adore being instead!" he barked, causing Alanna to shake her head at the predictability of their training master. In general, she responded better to positive feedback that insulting name-calling, but training master was training master, and should never complain. Knights did not complain, rule one she had learned upon arrival at the palace. "Now, I'd like to present to you, our renowned guest, the Shang Hawk!"

Gasps and murmurs broke like sea-waves breaking along the shore, as the entire row of squires sucked in air audibly. A Shang fighter was here in Corus to train them! Incredible!

"Hello," the Shang Hawk smiled shyly at the boys assembled. Alanna instantly determined that he had a pleasant, well-groomed face that she approved of. "My name is Shae. I'm looking forward to working with you all. We're going to be studied Shang-do, a particular style of martial arts that's been passed down from generation to generation among my people. Please take off any weapons you may be carrying on your person and leave them on that bench over there…there may come a time in your knightly careers that you must face your opponent without a weapon to aid you, so today we're going to be practicing unarmed hand-to-hand combat, and we don't want any swords getting in the way and accidentally poking someone in the eye." The squires hurried to obey his orders, eager to start practice. By the end of the lesson, however, they'd feel differently. If only they knew what they were getting themselves into…

"Now, the first thing we're going to learn today is how to fall properly—"

"Excuse me, sir?" Douglas pip up, armed raised tentatively in the air, "ah, we already know how to fall. Sir."

"Oh? Is that so?" Shae asked mildly, eyebrows quirked. Giggles erupted among the line of squires—until Shae, in the fastest movement Alanna had ever seen, jumped forward, grabbed Douglas's wrists, and flipped him over his back with the slightest of ease, landing him squarely on his ass on the floor.

"Ow," the boy moaned from the ground, as the other squires looked on amazed, not knowing whether to giggle at Douglas's expense or quiet down immediately lest they receive the same treatment.

"Correction, you know how to fall _off a horse. _You know how to fall sideways if someone is attacking you with a sword. You may even know how to fall for a pretty lady"—the squires laughed nervously at the joke—"but what you do _not_ know is how to fall flat on your back without breaking every bone in your body from a distance of ten feet or more, or from an opponent who can flip you like a ragdoll. That is what I'm going to teach you today. Now, everyone spread out and lie down on the ground in a circle!"

The squires, Alanna among them, were quick to obey. Who was this new teacher with his unconventional training methods? Flipping people through the air as if they weighed nothing was definitely something Alanna was eager to learn, much more than how to fall! Nonetheless, she complied; she couldn't be the only one left standing.

"Keep your legs straight out in front of you and your neck up—don't let your head touch the ground," Shae instructed, walking around the circle to observe the squires in person, "The head is obviously the most important part of your body that you need to protect, and you can do so through two ways: one, keep your head from hitting the ground, two: keep your neck muscles strong. This exercise will not only build your neck muscles up, but teach you to always be aware of where your head is. Now, pull your arms in front of you, and then slap them down on the ground at a 45 degree angle away from your chest, making contact with your forearm, from your elbow to your hand—cup your fingers now, that's it—on my count. Then bring them back to their original position, and repeat. We will do this 50 times. Keep your eyes on your belt the entire time—don't let your head touch the ground! Ready? One!"

SLAP! Echoed around the hall, followed by:

"TWO!"

SLAP!

"THREE!"

SLAP!

By twenty, the squires started to get a hang of the movement, and were feeling quite confident. By thirty, their arms were starting to hurt, and their necks were getting tired, by forty they could barely keep going, and by fifty their slaps had turned into half hearted 'thumps.' Alanna had no idea the exercise would be this hard when they started, they were laying down the whole time after all! They weren't even practicing falling—what did hitting the ground with their forearms have to do with anything?

Her fellow pages clearly shared the same sentiment as they grumbled while getting to their feet. Shae had them line up and doled out bruise balm to all who needed it, as the training master twitched his mustache in mirth to see the boys so thrown off._ Squires are always so cocky_, he thought to himself, _but this here Shang will teach them! Ha-ha!_

Alanna scowled at his sadism, but got in line for her allotment of the healing salve. Wondering dimly what the Shang Hawk's presence in the palace would do to her squire days, she slapped on the bright green aloe mixture and looked Shae straight in the eyes.

He met her gaze, barely showing a hint of surprise to see her vibrant purple eyes staring into his. Most people tended to find themselves a tad unnerved by their violet hue—but not the Shang Hawk. Smiling, he handed her another spoonful, "here you go little one. Just keep practicing and I'm sure you'll get it after awhile. "

_You better believe it_, Alanna thought to herself, _I'll practice harder than anyone, even though I don't see the point of the exercise. But I'll do it, because I want to be the best fighter I can be!_

And with a flourish, she dabbed her bruised arms and reclaimed Lightening, leading the way to their next class for the other squires to follow.

--

Later that evening, when she was recounting her day with Jon while in bed, she stopped talking mid-sentence at the sudden strange look he was giving her.

"What?" She blinked, suddenly self-conscious. "Has my nose turned into a carrot?" she joked.

"No," Jon grimaced, "but your arms look like they've been turned into plums. What the hell happened? Have you been fighting again with another Ralon?" he asked wearily, looking at her askance.

"No," Alanna snorted, "but you can thank our new Shang training master for my lovely appearance. Aren't these bruises marvelous? They so match my skin-tone!" she mock-shrieked, imitating something she'd heard Lady Delia say about the color green just about oh, five thousand times.

Jon grimaced again, and plucked her arm towards him to bestow it with kisses. "Mm, I don't"—kiss—"much like the"—kiss—"idea of this—"Shang master"—kiss—"much."

"Oh no, he's a wonderful fighter Jon, I can already tell! Granted, I'm not sure the point of the exercises he assigned us today, but he flipped Douglas on his back as if the squire were a sack of ladies' bonnet feathers! It was really incredible, I wish you could have been there to see it…what's wrong?"

Jon had stopped kissing her, as jealously flashed across his fine royal features. "I see. Nothing is wrong. I'm just really not liking this Shang guy, ok? Whatever."

Alanna shook her head, confused by how withdrawn he now seemed, "I'm sure you will when you meet him. His name's Shae, and he's the Shang Hawk. I was talking with Gary and Raoul before, and they said all the Shang are named after animals. Isn't that neat? I wonder if they chose their own names or if someone gives it to them. What do you think, Jon? Did Shae pick out 'hawk' for himself? Do you think that means he likes to go hawking, or that he can fly like a hawk, or—what?"

"Nothing! Could we just _please_ not talk about this stupid hawk guy? Geez Alanna, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you have a school girl's crush on your new teacher. You don't, do you?" he queried, gripping her arm a tad tightly considering it was covered in bruises.

"Don't be ridiculous, Jon," Alanna said, rolling her eyes in their sockets, "I just admire his fighting abilities, that's all. You know who I have a 'school girl's crush on,' as you so charmingly put it," she teased, poking her tongue out.

Jon narrowed his eyes, "you're talking about me, right?"

"Yes, you big bafoon!" Alanna shrieked, slapping him on the shoulder, "Of course! Goodness, if _I _ didn't know any better, I'd have said you were jealous."

"Me? Jealous? Don't make me laugh," Jon guawffed, though dimly he was aware of how trite he sounded. "Come on, let's blow out the candle, we have a long day tomorrow."

"Works for me," Alanna murmured, waving the light out with her Gift and settling down beneath the blankets to be close to Jon.

"Oh, and by the way," he murmured in her ear, "what's up with your talking cat?"

--Saphron

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_ A/N_: Shae's training exercise comes directly from **JUDO**, a Japanese martial art based on "the gentle way" of using your opponent's strength against them, by flipping them onto their backs, wrestling with them on the ground, and forcing them to submit to your will be expending very little energy and minimizing the damage to yourself. I've been studying/training the art-form for a few months now, and last semester I was learning **TAE KWON DO**, an ancient Korean martial art, so I will probably incorporate my knowledge of that style too. If anyone is interested in learning martial arts I highly recommend it. It's very empowering to learn self-defense. If you want to do the exercise I outlined in this chapter, go right ahead. I'll update next time with what to do once you've mastered that basic technique. :) 


	4. Chapter 4: Reverberations

**A Torrid Affair**

**By Saphron**

_A/N:_ Your reviews are all very encouraging; thank you so much. I really wanted to make this story sexy and sophisticated, as opposed to simply insubstantial fluff, and it seems to be working judging by the positive response I've been getting from you lovely readers. I'm so glad!

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**Chapter 4: Reverberations**

A white-gloved hand fringed with a fine silk pattern smashed rudely onto the wooden table in front of it, a gesture that stood in stark surprise against the delicate elegance of the fist that made the move.

"Damn it," a voice muttered over the muffled thump of the hand hitting the table. "I had him _this close_!"

"I know, Delia. So what happened?" The Duke of Conte asked quietly; his stony eyes not betraying the fact that he was angry, _very_ angry.

"I don't know!" the woman wailed, "one minute he was wrapped around my pinky finger, and would have done anything I asked merely for the chance to dance with me! Now, he's distant, polite--but distant. I don't understand what happened!"

Roger sighed. The Prince was proving tricky to snare indeed. "Well," he intoned dryly, "it appears the Prince is no longer interested in your…charms."

A small whimper escaped Lady Delia's throat. "But, but how? I've done everything you've told me to! I've dress with meticulous care before every ball, making sure every gown flatters my assets in every conceivable way! I've danced with him, flirted with him to get him interested, and even flirted with his friends to make him jealous! Mithros, I think I once even danced with his awful little squire, even though the runt was a head shorter than me! What more can I possibly do?"

Roger quirked an eyebrow. "I notice you haven't mentioned the most important thing you've done for him yet…"

Delia kneeled before Roger's armchair, gazing adoringly into his windy blue eyes. "What?" she whispered.

"Sex," Roger practically yawned in his nonchalance at uttering that one word. "Clearly, he's gotten bored in bed and moved on to another woman with more…charms."

"No!"

"Yes. I'm afraid so. Which means you'll just have to work even harder to seduce him. Do whatever it takes—even if it's unconventional—just make sure you get him back. My—our—entire plan rests on your pretty little shoulders. Understood, my pet?"

"Yes Roger," Delia breathed, "I understand completely…he won't be able to resist my new _charms_…"

--

THUMP echoed around the training hall, reverberating off the rack of weapons and the chamber door, criss-crossing with sound waves bouncing off the opposite walls to clamor ferociously in Alanna's ears—or maybe that was just the sound of her own heart pounding beneath the clack of her ribcage…

There was no denying it: Shang-Do was _hard_. After Shae had made them do 50 more of the laying down exercises, they had moved on to squatting and falling backwards, extending their arms at the same 45 degree angle to break their fall. They had also learned how to do a side-breakfall, front forward roll, and some groundwork techniques similar to the wrestling moves they had previously studied. Alanna didn't mind the bruises—she knew they made her stronger—but she couldn't stand the fact that, once again, she was on the same playing field as the rest of her class. It had taken her years of dedicated training to become the master swordswoman that could best every squire in a ten mile radius, but now with Shang-Do she was back to square one. She was just as capable—or incapable—as everyone else. And it didn't help that Shang-Do bore marked similarity to wrestling, a field she had never exactly excelled in. All in all, the word that could sum up her feelings was this: frustrating.

Nonetheless, she kept at it, gradually remembering to turn her head sideways when rolling forwards, and keep her chin down when side-breakfalling. Despite remembering to turn her head, however, she still seemed to have the most trouble with the standard forward roll. Being so short and close to the ground, she couldn't quite seem to get the momentum going needed to roll forwards without landing squarely on her shoulder (or, on a particularly bad try, her hip, which hurt even worse.) She had been practicing relentlessly both during practice times and outside the courts, but to no avail. She needed someone to show her how to do the move, and correct her if she misplaced her hand or pushed off on the wrong foot. She needed Shae's help.

Alanna let the squires in front of her trickle out of the room at the end of the lesson, wiping their brows with the towels slung over their shoulders and boasting to one another that they had executed a perfect elbow umber technique on their very first try. Then she approached Shae, who was busy picking up the soft mats they had been using to practice on in order to prevent injuries.

"Excuse me, Master Shang Hawk?" Alanna queried shyly, leaning down to make eye contact and grabbing a cornoe of one of the mats to help Shae lift it.

"Please, just Shae," he replied, tucking the last of the mats along the wall and turning to face his pupil. "What can I do for you?"

Alanna blinked—the man had incredibly unsettling features. His face was young, probably only a few years older than Alanna, and his eyes were slightly almond-shaped, cloaked in long black lashes that caressed the tops of his cheeks. They were beautiful eyes, the thought popped unbidden into Alanna's mind. Shaking her head to clear it of such a random thought, she continued with her request. "It's just—I can't quite seem to get the hang of the forward breakfall roll, I keep landing on my shoulder no matter what I do. I was hoping, that is, if you have the time, it's ok if you don't, but if you did, would you mind, well, giving me extra lessons on the side so I can catch up with everyone? I can pay you for your time, of course," she rushed out hurriedly, twining her fingers in the folds of her dampened sweaty tunic.

The corners of Shae's almond eyes turned up in a warm smile, "Of course little one, I'm always happy to help assist my students. No charge required. Meet me tomorrow morning here at five forty five, that's when I conduct my personal training sessions, which you're welcome to join."

Inwardly, Alanna balked at the ungodly hour—5:45 _in the morning_? Was the man _mad_?—but nodded her acquiescence; she needed the extra help, no matter how early it was to be given.

Trotting out of the training room, she shook her head; she already knew Jon wouldn't be happy with her new training schedule. He hated it whenever she crawled out of bed before him, and for some odd reason had taken a strong disliking to Shae despite that fact that the Shang Hawk had been perfectly polite towards him when they met the small dinner his father the king had prepared for his son and few select guests (Alanna included, albeit as a serving host for the royal family's table, much to Jon's chargrin, who would have preferred her by his side as he made "forced conversation" with the Shang Hawk, as he later described it.)

But ultimately, this was her decision, not Jon's. And a squire had to do what a squire had to do.

--

Alanna was right in her prediction of Jon's reaction to her new training schedule—

"Five forty five _in the morning_? You've _got_ to be kidding me!" He groaned, slapping the back of his hand on his forehead for dramatic emphasis. "That means we won't be able to wake up together. You _know_ how much I like waking up together…"

"I know, Jon," Alanna murmured, pressing the corners of her tunic with the hot iron in her hands to straighten out the wrinkles; there was another ball tomorrow, and although her attendance was optional, she had already agreed to go for Jon's sake, mostly as a compromise for having to leave his bed every morning before he had even awoken. Somehow though, she figured one night's attendance at a ball wouldn't exactly pacify him. "But I don't have much a choice; I need the extra practice."

Jon grumbled, "but it's still dark out at that hour! Couldn't he just train you when it's light out? _And_ when other people are around? That would make me feel a little more comfortable about the whole thing…"

Alanna rolled her eyes as steam hissed out the side of the metal triangle she was using to straighten her best tunic. "Geez Jon, what do you think is possibly going to happen other than training? Shae is a really nice guy, you know he is. Besides, I can't just demand a different training time, that's when he conducts his personal practice sessions which he is graciously allowing me to join, ok? So calm down, everything will be fine."

The worried frown lingering on Jon's face clearly showed that he was not appeased. "Well what about Faithful? Can't Faithful come with you? That's a good idea, huh?" Jon seemed to perk up.

_Excuse me? I'm so not getting up at that ungodly hour for no good reason, thankyouverymuch. _The cat snorted scathingly, _What do you think I am, Alanna's personal chaperon?_

"Oh come on, Faithful, it's not _that_ early.." Jon tried, forgetting to infuse his voice with every last drop of the Conte charm and instead falling a bit into whining, "please? Pretty please? For me?"

_Uch. Fine. But I demand a new sleeping pillow in return! A really nice one, with goose feathers in it, got it?_

"Deal," the Prince smiled, extending his hand to shake with Faithful before realizing that, as a cat, Faithful probably wasn't much accustomed to the social conventions of the court. "Mithros, I keep forgetting Faithful isn't a real person," Jon shook his head wonderingly, "I still can't get over the fact that he talks!"

_Yes, yes, the power of speech is amazing_… the cat in question drawled, _Alanna, you missed a spot to the left there._ _Don't forget my pillow! _And with those last words he was gone, hopped out of the window to prowl about town.

Alnna finished the last spot on her tunic and hopped down to join Jon on the bed. He slung a protective arm around her shoulders, resting his chin on one of them, and sighed softly. "Well, at least you're coming to the ball tomorrow night to keep me company."

"Yep," Alanna smiled sweetly at him, "though don't forget, if you try and make me dance with any 'pretty young ladies' I'm so out of there."

Jon chuckled in her ear, and she felt the reverberation rumble through his broad chest and bounce back to vibrate against her skin. It felt like she was adopting the laugh he had started, taking it into herself until the sound waves mingled between them, sharing their bodily hums. "I know, I know…but if _Gary_ tries, don't blame me!"

"Yeah, except _you'd _probably be the one to put him up to it!" Alanna snorted, "so the deal still stands. No dancing with women, period. Or I'll call it a night."

"Fine, fine." Jon replied, pulling the covers around them, "Though if you leave, I suppose I'll have to comfort the poor 'pretty young ladies' whose hearts you've so cruelly broken myself, and dance with them all three times each to console them!"

Alanna narrowed her eyes and humped, "so? What's your point?"

Jon grinned, hiding the playful smile that threatened to break across his features. "Oh, nothing, just that…well…the women I dance with _tend_ to want to follow me to my room at the end of the night…so really might it might be best if you slept in your own bed after leaving the ball, just in case, you know."

"JONATHAN!" Alanna shrieked, pulling away from him so quickly the blankets tumbled to the floor. Moving preemptively, he grabbed her with one large palm and cupped the other over her ajar mouth. He had been expecting her to react like that, after all.

Grinning wickedly, knowing he had won, he murmured sweetly, "_or_, you could just avoid that entire possibility and stay till the end of the ball to keep me from having to leave with anyone else…"

Alanna tried to speak from behind the mask of his hand, but it came out jumbled and incoherent. Prying his fingers off, she spat out, "Jonathan of Conte! Threatening to sleep with other women _just_ to get me to stay at some stupid ball is completely deceitful!

"Well…did it work?"

"No," Alanna snorted noncommittally, turning vehemently on her side away from him, implying that the discussion was over. But Jon ignored the gesture and tucked a large well-toned arm around her, hugging her close. "If you say so dear," he smiled under his breath, "if you say so…"

**Saphron**

* * *

_A/N: _Sorry, this was a bit short, I'll update soon as I can with the ball chapter. And I'm glad we have some martial artists out there! Wonderful :) 


	5. Chapter 5: The Dancing Delia and Dove

**A Torrid Affair**

**By Saphron**

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** Chapter 5 – The Dancing Delia and The Dancing Dove**

Alanna sighed wearily as she saw Lady Delia make a beeline for Jonathan, striding over to him as if he were the last morsel of food on Earth and she hadn't eaten in a century and a half. She had really outdone herself this time; dripping emeralds from every conceivable body part and swathed in enough make-up to make a troop of traveling clowns ecstatically happy, she looked gorgeous. It was an artificial beauty, but it was beauty, nonetheless. She was on the warpath, and Jonathan was her target.

Although the sight made her sick to her stomach, Alanna couldn't tear her eyes away. She watched as the court woman—or "the competition," the thought popped into Alanna's head—sauntered over to the prince—_her_ prince—and coyly tapped his chest with the tip of her fan to attract his attention. Jonathan bowed politely in response, murmuring his greetings, polite but distanced. His blank face gave no indication to those around them that he had ever had "relations" with the woman before him, a remarkable feat in light of the fact that she had progressed to licking her ruby-red lips with the tip of her pink tongue—a gesture that had all the boys in attendance around her nigh drooling on their tunics.

"Yes, the lady is rather stunning. She seems to have garnered the interest of all those around her, "a voice murmured near Alanna's ear. "I suppose you, too, are one of her many admirers?"

The snort escaped her lips before she could latch it down, followed by a muttered, "hardly!" But snorting and muttering weren't exactly ideal court etiquette—if Duke Gareth could had seen her, he would have been ashamed to call her a squire of the realm—and Alanna hastily tried to cover her tracks. Turning to the voice, she explained feebly, "um, I just meant, I'm too young for girls," falling back on her standard time-worn excuse.

But the Shang Hawk was no simpleton. True, he had spent more time training his body than his mind, but you didn't survive into your twenties as a Shang master without having an intelligent head on your shoulders. Plus, he was gifted at reading people and predicting what move they were going to do next, or what feeble bluff they were attempting to pull off. His intuition arguably aided him in sparring matches more than his technical skills, and such intuition didn't disappear when he left the training grounds.

"Hmm, you've almost completed your knight training, so you must be what, sixteen, seventeen, years old?" Shae murmured with quirked eyebrows. His tone wasn't threatening or accusatory, but it couldn't exactly be called playful either. His question seemed loaded with a solemn seriousness intermingled with a note of hope. "As far as I can recall from my years of puberty, you're more than ready for girls age-wise. Unless, perhaps, there's another reason you're not interested in the most beautiful lady in the room?"

Alanna blushed and felt the blood race from her heart in torrents. Did Shae suspect her secret? Why else could he be asking such intrusive, intuitive questions? Had she given herself away during practice that morning? They had been working closely together to perfect her forward roll, and at one point, Shae had literally wrapped his body over hersto position her hands and feet correctly. The gesture was innocent enough—Alanna had had her hands and feet placed incorrectly, after all—but could it have been possible that Shae had felt the curves beneath her tunic despite the layers of protective breast band gear? The one thing he was more knowledgeable about than almost anything in the world was the human body—how it worked, how muscles interacted with bone and visa versa, how ligaments held things together and how gravity could be thwarted. Perhaps he could tell from the slenderness of her frame or the hips slightly wider than those of her peers that she was notwhat she first appeared to be…

Shae nodded knowingly when she made no response (her brain still scrambling for a good excuse); "fear not, little one," he murmured softly in her ear, "your secret is safe with me. See you again tomorrow at five forty five? I know you've been dying to learn how to flip someone, and I think it's about time you learned. By the way, that tunic looks very nice on you."

And on that mysterious note, he wandered off to go mingle with the other guests in attendance, all of whom seemed utterly thrilled and fascinated by the resident visiting Shang. The gentlemen knights were eager to pick his brains about fighting techniques, and less desirable women than Lady Delia, but still women who could hold a candle to beauty's name, latched onto his muscular arms with a gusto usually reserved for the oldest, baldest, and wealthiest of noble lords about to kick the bucket and leave their entire estates to the future Mrs. Wealthy Lord. True, he was hardly marriageable material, but for the jaded, stifled, bored to death court ladies fed up with their insipid lives, a torrid affair with a Shang master might just do the trick to spice things up before their prison sentence to a proper suiter was executed. Shae was certainly handsome, not in the regal way Jonathan was, but in an earthly, mystical, mysterious way that had ladies fanning their rose-tinted cheeks as he strode by. When he didn't even notice their presence or flushed faces, he became instantly even more desirable as a bed partner—he was a verifiable taste of the exotic—a dish best served hot, fast, and covered in frosted kisses.

But Alanna was not charmed by him. In different circumstances—circumstances that didn't include Jonathan as anything more than a friend and knight-master—it might have been different. She wasn't a girl prone to crushing, but if she was ever likely to develop a 'school girl's crush' one someone, as Jon had once so charmingly put it, that crush would have been Shae. Not only did the man's merits speak for himself—beyond the beauty of his physical body, dark and tanned, muscular and strong and thick, or even his awe-inspiring skills as a deadly fighter (as a child, Alanna would have done _anything_ to meet a true Shang master), but even just because he was the first young man Alanna had encountered on a daily basis outside her friend circle, all of whose members, with the exception, obviously, of Jonathan, were like brothers to her. Alanna could objectively recognize that Raoul and Gary and the others were attractive specimens of the opposite sex that any young lady in her right mind would be lucky to have, but there was no way in Mithros' name that'd she ever think of than as anything more than her raucous but lovable guy friends. They didn't even know she was a girl! No, romance could never have bloomed between her and her fellow knights and squires, that much was certain. But a young, handsome, exotic-looking Shang fighter named after the fierce and noble hawk, who accidentally caused ladies to swoon without the slightest effort? That was a man Alanna could have conceivably—in a different universe—developed a wee little crush on.

But she wasn't living in _that_ universe—she was living in this one. She was living in a universe that included Jon. Sweet, handsome, arrogant, charming, Jonathan. Jon was fairer-skinned than Shae, and though still certainly strong and capable at fighting, not nearly as muscular or deadly. But he had a regal presence and an inner confidence the Shang Hawk, despite his demonstrative fighting prowess, seemed to lack. And most importantly—he cared for her in a very deep and meaningful way. At least, that's what he had assured her when they first bridged the line between friends and more than friends…so why, exactly, Alanna wondered, was he now dancing with the infamous Lady Delia yet _again_?

Alanan forget all about the Shang Hawk and his odd intuitiveness—she'd worry about the fact that someone else may in fact be privy to her deepest, most important secret later—upon the shock of seeing Jon begin his _fourth_ dance of the night with Delia. Once had been acceptable, as Prince of the realm, he was dully expected to dance with all the young ladies in attendance at least once, or risk angering his parents and setting the entire court into a flurry of gossipmongers. Twice was even tolerable, given that as the night neared towards the end, the number of un-danced with ladies tapered off, leaving Jon to dance a second round with a few select women brave enough to demand from their prince. But third was truly pushing it, and fourth was simply an outrage! Alanna had been surreptitiously tracking his movements all evening, partly as a defensive maneuver to make sure he didn't have a second alone with Gary to convince his cousin to drag 'Squire Alan' onto the dance floor, and partly as a jealous lover hiding a torrid affair with watch with meticulous care to make sure the "competition" didn't heat up too hotly.

But it appeared that the competition and indeed heated up, as the fire snapping in Alanna's fiercely violet eyes flickered in testimony. True, Jonathan didn't exactly seem thrilled to be in Lady Delia's arms—or did he? Alanna's paranoid mind couldn't help but wonder—but still, four dances? _Four_? Was that really necessary? There were plenty of young ladies who hadn't even received a second, let alone a third or fourth! And yet there was Jon, twirling a be-emeralded Lady Delia around the floor, earning the wistful sighs and stares of every lady in the room not already engaged with attempting to flirt with the even more polite and distanced Shang Hawk.

"That's it, I'm out of here," Alanna muttered to no one in particular, slamming down her feet on the floor as she marched out of the room, heedfully ignoring the strange stares of the fellow guests around her. True, she hadn't had to dance with any 'pretty young ladies'—but watching Jonathan dance with them was torture enough. She didn't need to stay to see such painful sights, she was leaving, and tough cookies for Jonathan if he got bored without her!

_Bored? Ha! Fat chance…he's too busy dancing to be **board**_... Alanna thought viciously to herself, striding down the hall towards her room with unusual gusto. _Why did he make such a fuss about me coming anyway? It's not like he even bothered to talk to me half the night!_

She scared Faithful half to death when she slammed the door open to her room. The cat had been busy enjoying his new goose-feather pillow, courtesy of the Prince, in blissful luxury, and was so startled by Alanna's sudden presence that he accidentally clawed the soft velvet fabric open.

_Look what you made me do!_ The cat yowled at his mistress, _now my new pillow is **completely**_ _ruined! Thanks a lot._

Alanna rolled her eyes—she had far more to worry about than a stupid pillow, what with Shang masters running around complementing her tunic and implying they knew her secret, and the Prince—uch!—dancing with the most beautiful woman in the room _four_ bloody times.

Nonetheless, Faithful felt like her only friend at the moment—that was the trouble with dating your best friend, if you were mad at your lover, you couldn't exactly talk to your best friend about it!—so she gruffly apologized ("sorry Faithful…I'll buy you a new one"), picking him up off his pillow and hugging him close to her chest. "Stupid Jonathan," she muttered, whether to herself or her pet she wasn't entirely sure.

_Oh no. What happened?_ The cat queried, apparently deciding to forgive her. It was just a pillow, after all. And she had offered to get him a new one, which really, was all that mattered.

"Nothing," Alanna spat foully, squeezing her cat even closer, "except that—that _prick_—was dancing with Lady Delia for the _fourth_ time when I left!"

_Ouch, don't squeeze so hard!_ _I'm not as soft and fluffy as my now-ruined pillow, you know, _the cat replied, practically wheezing for air. Alanna immediately loosened her hold, to which the cat gratefully offered, _the ball's almost over, maybe he just ran out of women to dance with for a third time._

"No that's the thing! There were still ladies in the room who hadn't even received a second dance yet! I was just her, _just_ Delia, he was so busy with all night!"

_Oh. Well. That's probably not too good a sign._

"You think?" Alanna huffed, vainly trying to use sarcasm to hide the onslaught of tears that threatened to escape.

Faithful looked at her appraisingly, noticing the choked tone to her voice that indicated she was on the verge of crying. _Um, maybe you should get out of here. If the ball is almost over, the Prince will be home any minute now, and I'm sure he'll demand to come in here to talk to you. Maybe you should take some time to compose yourself and calm down before arrives, so you don't say anything you'll regret later. I've found it's always best to take a little breather when you're upset before you confront someone_.

Alanna paused mid-sniffle. For once her life, her contrary pet was actually offering some sound advice. "You're right…" she sniffled, "I, I should get out of here, clear my head, get away from Jon for a bit…but where should I go? I don't even want to be in the palace right now…"

The answer was obvious to feline and female both: The Dancing Dove. Harbor of every dishonest pickpocket, sailor on shore leave, prostitute looking to drum up some business, and lovable thief; in other words, the perfect place to soak up the ambiance, get lost in the crowd, and forget your troubles...

--

Alanna arrived on the threshold of her favorite lower city inn, the Dancing Dove, with cheeks flushed from the windswept ride to town. Stephan silently stabled Moonlight for her, as she entered and was greeted by the cacophony of noise and smoke and color that surrounded her. She spotted Laughing Nell in the corner selling her flowered ware, and Lightfingers flirting playfully with one of the bar mistresses who looked about ready to pour a mug of ale on his head to cool his ardent passions. But the man she really wanted to see was sitting by the fire in his favorite armchair, discussing pick-pocketing strategy with his closest followers. He was the King of Thieves for a reason, after all.

"Hello, George," Alanna murmured, stalking up close to his ear to surprise him. She felt a small vindictive seed of pleasure to see him jump an inch into the air; surprisingly the Rogue was no easy task, after all. Perhaps she was getting stealthier on her feet…or maybe the Dancing Dove was just unusually crowded that night. Either way, she earned his attention, which was her goal in the first place.

"Why lookee 'ere, it's Squire Alan!" George grinned happily, slapping her playfully on the back and pushing her robustly into a nearby chair, clearly as revenge for her surprising him. "Lookin' mighty resplendent in his palace robes, I might say. Don' tell me ye dressed up so fine just t' see your ol' pals at the Dancin' Dove!"

Alanna blushed as George's bellow echoed around the circle of men, all of whom laughed heartily and shot her teasing winks of mirth. Mirthros, George was the most playful man she knew, hands down. But sometimes his playing…

"No," she snorted back, regaining lost ground, "I just came from a ball at the palace. But it was—boring—so I ducked out to come here instead."

"'Atta lad!" One of George's men roared drunkenly, "who needs 'em noble-folk when ye got good ale 'n good, exctin' city commoners right 'ere, eh?"

"Exactly," Alanna grinned back, already beginning to feel her spirits rise. George ordered her a beer—a distinct oddity, normally he just gave her lemonade, on the insistence that she was "too young" to handle alcohol—and she spent the rest of the night getting blindly, happily, utterly, shit-faced with her favorite Kings of Thieves. Diong so was completely out of character for the normally even-tempered and disciplined squire in training, but this time, she didn't really give a rat's ass about how hung-over she'd feel tomorrow morning—all she wanted to do was forget about Jonathan and the stupid bitch hanging on his arm all night. She hadn't even actually intended to become so intoxicated that she voluntarily agreed to learn the lyrics to Lightfingers' raunchy song about a sailor who traveled to the Yamani Isles armed with a basket of exotic fruit which he apparently traded for some interesting sexual liaisons, but one drink led to another, and before she knew it, she was drunk. Very, very drunk. Which she told everyone…repeatedly.

"I'm drunk," she hiccupped, blinking at the wavering figure of George before her. "I'm…drunk. I'm really…really…really…drunk. I. Am. _Drunk_."

"Yes, yes ye are, Squire Alan," George laughed, hiding a worried frown behind his nervous laugh. When he had ordered that first beer for Alanna, he honestly hadn't expected her to become so utterly intoxicated so quickly. It was completely unlike her to be so irresponsible, normally she was content with water or lemonade. He didn't think one beer could possibly lead to the state she currently found herself in…it was just one drink, after all. Clearly, he had misjudged her readiness to engage with alcohol. She may have just turned seventeen, but that didn't mean she was ready for the Dancing Dove lifestyle just quite yet. "In fact, I think ye've had enough, Alan," George chided lightly, plucking the glass from her hand. "Why don't ye call it a night, eh?"

His suggestion was greeted by a roar of disagreement from his men, all of whom found 'Squire Alan's' sudden introduction to the wonderful world of alcohol as more than amusing. Normally, the lad resisted any attempts to get him to drink, remaining sober as a nun, but tonight for some reason he had acted completely uncharacteristically and actually imbibed his fair share of pumpkin ale and dark lager. Now was no time to stop!

George frowned. He respected, admired, and enjoyed hanging out with his men, but sometimes they lacked the foresight or intelligence that he possessed as their leader. And furthermore, if he said it was time to stop, than it was time to stop—that was a decision leaders had the privilege to make.

"I must insist," he drawled, but the edge to his voice showed he meant business. "Up wit' ye Alan, it's time to go."

"Awwww," Alanna muttered with sleepy, drunken, half-lidded eyes. "But we're having sooo muchhh funnn…" Nonetheless, she complied, getting to her feet—only to topple quickly off of them.

George caught her before she hit the floor, but she was already passed out in his arms and snoring slightly before he even realized she was no longer conscious. The men around him all howled with laughter, but their leader simply frowned, and scooped her up in his arms with a sigh. "I'll go put 'er on me floor wit' some blankets for th' night," he grumbled to the men before stalking off towards his rooms.

Of course, he had no intention of actually putting her on the floor. No, he'd take the floor himself—she got the bed. (He had just said that because he knew it'd sound a bit odd if he volunteered to put a drunk young 'boy' in his bed for the night, regardless of the context.) Making sure she was nice and comfortable and tucked in tight (and lying on her side, in case she vomited in the middle of the night), he grabbed a lone pillow and headed to the foot of the bed, where he curled up at her feet protectively. (Indeed, if Faithful had been there, eh probably would have commented that George was stealing his spot.)

As George blew out the candle, he couldn't help but wonder: what in the world had gotten into Alanna to make her drink so much that night? Something was amiss…and he'd be damned if he didn't find out what it was...

**Saphron**

* * *

_A/N: _Someone asked for more George…wished granted. ;)  



	6. Chapter 6: Emotional Crisis

**A Torrid Affair**

**By Saphron **

_A/N:_ Many of you probably won't like this chapter; nonetheless, it's here, and it's staying. (Things can't _always_ go our heroine's way—yes, Alanna is truly amazing, but she's still human and still makes human mistakes. Expecting her to be perfect is asking too much of her.) Try reading to the end though, things get a tad cheerier.

* * *

**Chapter 6: Emotional Crisis  
**

Alanna groaned as the bumps of Moonlight's normally smooth canter bit into her aching muscles and pounded against the inside of her skull. Despite the pain it caused her, however, she would have preferred to have been going at a full gallop, but that breakneck speed was impossible in the city, where pedestrians and shopkeepers littered the cobblestone streets and even moving at a canter was pushing it (trotting was standard, and walking always played it safe. There were just too many fruit vendors and shoppers out and about to risk anything more.)

She _had_ to get back to the palace though, and quickly! She had already missed half her mathematics lesson and would probably miss the rest of it by the time she reached the palace; at the rate she was going (which felt like a snail's pace to her…a snail on an extremely bumpy road, that is) she'd probably even miss the beginning of Etiquette instruction.

Damn alcohol! She had woken up that morning in a strange bed that did not belong to her, in a room that she did not call her own, with a man on the floor who was neither Jonathan nor any member of her immediate family, utterly disorientated and strangely nauseous. She probably wouldn't even have woken up at all, if the crash of a large wooden barrel falling off the room and shattering on the ground right outside her window had not occurred, waking everyone in a mile's radius at least. (She didn't know it was a barrel at the time, but Stephan later provided that particular detail to her as she was hurriedly saddling Moonlight. He didn't, however, have time to explain what a barrel was doing on the roof, but Alanna really had too much on her mind to bother to know anyway, so in the end it was a moot point.)

In a haze of blurred vision and throbbing temples, she had dizzily sat up—big mistake number one. Sitting up while already dizzy lying down is usually not the best idea in the world, she had discovered the hard way. Big mistake number two was shrieking when she saw a man on the floor blinking sleepily, obviously as surprised by the barrel crash as she was. Of course, her shriek could have woken the dead, which nearly scared him to death and caused him to yell, which just added to the general cacophony of angry voices shouting "pipe down! What's all tha' crashin' and shoutin' 'bout? Can't a rogue catch some z's around 'ere?! Bloody 'ell!" Big mistake number three—well, let's just say, it would have been nice to have made it to the chamber-pot.

George was kind enough to hold back her hair as she utterly decimated the floor by his bed with the contents of last night's dinner, a gesture she felt distinctly mortified about. Far worse than the physical trauma and pain of the world's worst hangover was having a witness for her world's worst hangover—and not just any witness, but a man who once practically proposed to her.

No, Alanna's morning had not been going well. She suspected she was still slightly drunk as she bolted out of George's room, leaving him to clean up the mess (she offered, of course, to do it herself, but George shooed her out of the room, knowing she had knight lessons to attend to. Besides, every time she looked or smelled the mess it just made her gag again, essentially defeating the entire purpose of offering to clean in the first place. No, it was best she had left as soon as she was able to stand properly, that much was clear.)

Now she was heading towards the palace, bleary-eyed and frantic with stressful worry. Duke Gareth was going to _kill_ her before any Tusaine or Carthaki soldiers ever got the chance…

_Damn alcohol!_ She repeated vehemently to herself, _now I see why it's so dangerous…people don't know their limits, what starts off as one innocent little drink soon turns to a bellyful of ale and the complete loss of basic verbal skills and motor function. And, even worse, people use it as a crutch to support their emotional problems that they can't handle. The only reason I drank so much last night was because I was upset with Jon…I tried to leave the palace to be more responsible, so I'd have time to calm down and assess the situation with a level head, but instead I just ended up acting even more irresponsibly by getting so drunk! What was I thinking?! How could I have been so stupid? I am __**never**__ making the same mistake twice, that's for sure. _

Duke Gareth would have been proud of the mental chastising Alanna gave herself, if he had somehow been able to read her mind telepathically. But he couldn't, so it came to no surprise to her that when she bolted into the stables and left Moonlight to be rubbed down and de-saddled by a palace hostler (a big no-no for knights-in-training, who were explicitly told to look after their own horses and gear and those of their knight-masters, in order to learn independence and responsibility. Handing your horse off to handlers was a right reserved for visiting nobility and fully ordained knights, not lowly squires or pages), and then proceeded to run to her Etiquette class (which she arrived only ten minutes late for—unfortunately, Etiquette master balked at her not-so-stealthy attempt to sneak into the back row of the classroom, probably because the smell she was giving off alerted him before his eyes ever did, and kicked her out of the classroom), that she was soon after called via palace messenger to the Duke's office for a strict hearing.

The Duke had—rightfully, Alanna couldn't help but admit to herself—chewed her head off for being so irresponsible as to leave a ball and ride into the city late at night without permission (although squires were given more leeway and freedom than pages, they were still expected to behave responsibly, a fact Duke Gareth hammered into Alanna's battered brain at least, oh, fifty three thousand times.)

She had kept her head hung low the entire time, so ashamed that she couldn't even make eye-contact. The feeling of shame overwhelmed every sinew in her taught as a board body; she felt even more nauseous from it than she did from the dehydration caused by consuming too much alcohol the night before. After nearly half 'n hour's worth of pure scolding, the Duke finally let her go; she was swaying on her feet dangerously, and the Duke knew she needed rest. He could still remember the very first time "the gang" had taken _him_ out partying when he was nothing but a wee page lad; he had gotten so drunk, he had actually thought a bowl full of peanuts would make an excellent hat. Roald _still_ didn't let him live that down, often doing impressions in the stateroom after meetings when it was just the two of them of the older man dancing around with a peanut-bowl on his head.

Nonetheless, sympathy for the lad or no sympathy, 'he' had to be punished. A month's probation, including strict restriction to the palace grounds, and extra duties helping all the training and school masters ought to suffice. Furthermore, Duke Gareth informed the squire, he'd be informing 'his' knight-master about his squire's reckless behavior!

Alanna groaned as she practically flew out of Duke Gareth's office at breakneck speed. The alacrity of the movement made her head spin, but she wanted _out_ of there. Secretly, she was more than relieved that Duke Gareth had banned her from attending the rest of her lessons today; he knew, and she knew, that she needed sleep—and a bath—desperately, and she wouldn't have been able to pay attention in class anyway. Though that wasn't the real reason he banned her (after all, squires were expected to attend lessons in all but the most life-threatening of illnesses or family emergencies, no matter what condition they were in); he had banned her because she was a disgrace to the realm, and he didn't think the other squires deserved to see—or smell—such a despicable disgrace.

Just her luck, the very people she banged into on her way to her rooms was, of course, her fellow squires moving from the indoor classrooms to the outdoor training grounds. Alanna groaned and ducked her head, trying to take up as little space as possible as she attempted to flee past them—an attempt that was a far cry from successful.

"Pee ew, Alan! You reek man!" One squire called out to her, pinching his nose and waving his hand in front of his face, miming someone who had just discovered the leftover fish dinner that had been hiding under their bed for week.

"Haha, looks like little Alan finally tried alcohol! Damn, I never thought I'd see the day!" Another called out, grinning wickedly as he pounded 'Squire Alan' on the back. "Now you're really one of us."

Alanna looked, if it were even possible, even _more_ mortified. Her entire face resembled a cherry that had married with a strawberry and produced a very red tomato.

"Aw, don't worry about it Alan, it happens to everyone," Douglass offered cheerfully, seeing the dismayed look on her face.

"Seriously Alan, we've all been there," Sacherell agreed, "I mean, last month I got so drunk, I carried a barrel onto the roof of the inn I was drinking at. I have no idea why I did that…I just thought it'd be a good idea at the time."

Alanna just shook her head in response, too mortified to reply. The others waved her off cheerfully, still laughing at how shocking it was to discover innocent little 'Squire Alan' hung-over, leaving Alanna to hurry along on her way.

But unfortunately, her ordeal was not over yet. She thought she was safe upon reaching the threshold of her room, but—

"Alanna of Trebond, _where have you been all night_?" Jonathan spat icily from the chair he was perched in that stood in the very center of her room, facing the door directly. It looked like he had been waiting there for awhile…

"What the—?" she muttered in alarm. What the hell, had Jon been waiting in that same chair for her to come home all night long? That was just downright _creepy_. "What are you doing in my room?"

"What am I doing in your room? _What am I doing in your room?_ Are you _serious_ Alanna? I was worried sick about you all night! First, you ditch me at the ball even though you _promised_ me you'd stay till the end—"

"You were dancing with Delia!" Alanna tried to interject, to no avail.

"_Then_ Faithful tells me you've gone to the Dancing Dove—"

"Stupid worthless cat," Alanna muttered under her breath, "clearly not very good at holding out under torture…"

"_Then_ you stay out all night, apparently"—he sniffed the pungent air—"getting completely shit-faced—"

"Ok, Jon, you know what? We're not doing this now, so just back off, alright. Just—leave me alone."

"_Excuse me_? In case you haven't noticed _Alanna_, I'm your knight-master _and_ your Prince, and _you_ are in _no_ position to give _me_ orders!"

Silently, Alanna fumed at his words, though secretly she knew he was technically right. Such language was never deemed appropriate under the Code of Chivalry in which she adhered to. But it had been a very hard morning, and all she wanted at the moment was to crawl into the bath and soak the stench of shame off of her. She didn't want to deal with Jon and his righteous anger right now, and she didn't think he should be forcing her to either.

She could feel her temper rising to a dangerous level, so without saying anything, she simply marched over to her bathroom, shut the door, locked it tight, and hollered out, "we'll do this later!"

And with that—despite his repeated poundings on her door to open up—she blissfully hopped into the tub and drenched her body with warm vanilla sugar.

--

When Alanna finally exited the bath, refreshed, clean, and smelling normally again, she was relieved to find that Jonathan had gone. Faithful, however, was purring blissfully on her pillow, much to her chagrin—the stupid cat had, after all, given her location away to the Prince.

"Get off my pillow, Faithful!" She snapped at him, literally snatching it out from under him. "I'm going to take a nap and I need it!"

_Hey!_ The cat yowled back at her, hair sticking up on end, _I was using that! You could have just asked nicely!_

"And _you_ could have not told Jon where I was last night! But I guess I can't expect a stupid _cat_ to know any better," she shot back scathingly, throwing herself angrily on the bed and burying her face in her cat-fur covered pillow.

Faithful practically hissed in fury at her, purple eyes darting with wrathful scorn. _**Excuse me**__, Princess? One, you never told me your location—which by the way, was easy enough for the Prince to guess on his own, seeing as it's the only place outside the palace you ever actually __**go**__—was top-secret espionage information, here, ok. No one gave me the memo that it was a national secret to be guarded with my life! Second, the only reason I told the Prince where you were is because he wanted to come find you to apologize! He said Delia was all over him and there was no way he could have refused to dance with her without sending her into hysterics, but he guessed when he saw you leave that you weren't very happy with him so he left the ball to come find you so he could say how sorry he was to have upset you._

"Oh... Really?" Alanna sniffed, cheering up slightly against her will.

_Yes, really_, the Cat replied derisively. _Third—I'm not stupid. And I swear to the Goddess, if you ever call me 'stupid' again I__** will**__ leave you and never come back. I mean it Alanna, I don't care how upset you are, that doesn't give you the right to take it out on your friends and treat them like crap stuck to the bottom of your boot._

Instantly, Alanna felt deeply guilty. Faithful was right, she had been horrible to him, and she had no excuse. She had jumped to conclusions, blaming him for Jonathan's justified anger towards her, simply because she needed an emotional punching bag to take her feelings out on. Mithros, first she was turning to alcohol, now to unnecessarily yelling at her cat, all because she couldn't handle her problems. What was wrong with her? When had such emotional instability started and in Mithros' name why?

"I am so sorry, Faithful," she said genuinely, meaning every word. "You're right, I never should have called you that, I was just angry and, and taking it out on you."

_Clearly_, the cat sniffed.

"Please don't leave me," the words escaped her lips before she had time to think about them. Hearing the sound of her own voice, a voice that didn't even resemble hers, she realized she sounded like a scared little girl who had just lost her mommy in the middle of a large crowd, not like a brave knight in training who could handle anything thrown her way. She had honestly never felt so alone in her life. George had had to take care of her all morning, Duke Gareth was ashamed to call her a squire of the realm, her fellow squires thought she smelled and wouldn't stop teasing her, Jonathan was furious at her and would probably never talk to her again, let alone want to continue dating her, and Faithful was threatening to leave her. In one night she had single-handedly managed to alienate, embarrass, burden, or anger every person she cared about and every person whose opinion mattered to her. Where was Thom when she needed him? Or even Coram, or Maude? Any friendly face to combat the sea of angry ones? Why was it that fighting bandits and soldiers was so much easier than dealing with people (and cognizant animals)?

Faithful rolled his eyes (if cats could rolls eyes, that is), _I won't. This time. Just learn from your mistakes, and don't do it again. And you still owe me a pillow_.

Before Alanna could say another word, the feline had left, clearly not in the mood to deal with a self-pitying Alanna. And indulge in self-pity she did, wallowing for hours over how miserable she was. Things couldn't possibly be worse, she convinced herself. There was no way she'd be able to sleep with the cacophony of guilty voices in her conscious clamoring for attention.

But sleep she did; cool, uninterrupted, dreamless sleep. It was surprising how well she slept, actually, under the circumstances, but she did, gaining back the restorative rest she so dearly needed.

When she awoke a few hours later, near dinner time, she couldn't stand the thought of eating in the great hall with everyone else, so instead she simply went hungry for the night, and attempted to work on some homework she knew she had probably missed. But the studying was proving difficult, considering the fact that she had missed an entire day's worth of lessons. Eventually she gave up, falling to washing her mostly ruined gold tunic (a replacement for which would take a serious dent out of her already limited budget) and cleaning and organizing her room. When these chores were completed, she contemplated knocking on Jon's door to talk things out with him. But if he was home he didn't answer, and Alanna wasn't quite feeling up the task of bravely striding in without permission.

So instead she just went to bed again. Making sure the door between their rooms was unlocked in case he wanted to come in to talk with her in the middle of the night, she crawled under the covers and resolved not to fall asleep until Faithful came home, eager to apologize to him once more before calling it a night. But slowly her eyelids started getting heavier and heavier, until eventually she nodded off entirely, still groggy from the effects of alcohol the night before and a day-long hangover.

When she woke up the next morning, Jonathan wasn't in his rooms (or at least, he wasn't answered her knocking summons again), but Faithful was curled up on the end of her bed as usual.

"Your name truly fits you, Faithful," she murmured to herself tearfully as she awoke and saw him there, touched that he had returned to her after she had been so cruel to him. "You're the most loyal pet a girl could ever have."

_Damn straight, and don't you forget it,_ the cat muttered back sleepily, _which just means the new pillow you're going to get me should be even better than the first one…_

**Saphron**

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_A/N:_ I knew you probably wouldn't like this chapter much…ah well, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. No one ever said this fic was going to be all light and fluffy the entire time. Granted, it's not a gothic novel, so things will pick up—but don't expect roses and daffodils from me kids. This is going to be a mature fic that covers a range of deep-felt emotions, and if it's not to your tastes feel free not to read it. But I hope you still do, because where there are fights…there is make-up sex. I'm sure I needn't say another word, hint hint, nudge nudge, wink wink. 


	7. Chapter 7: Making Amends

**A Torrid Affair**

**By Saphron**

_A/N:_ Things pick up a bit, so I hope you like this chapter a wee bit better.

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**Chapter 7: Making Amends**

Alanna steeled herself to enter the Great Hall for breakfast; she knew the ordeal to come would not be pleasant. Nonetheless, armed with a deep breath in her lungs and a determination not to let her face show how scared she was, she entered the room and made her way to the squire's table, where she quietly grabbed a banana and doggedly started to peel it.

"So the alchie-lad finally decides to grace us with his presence!" Douglass chortled, slapping a hand on 'Squire Alan's' back and winking at his fellow squires around the table. Everyone laughed, much to Alanna's chagrin. She blushed fiercely—she knew this morning wouldn't be pleasant.

"Seriously though Alan, are you alright? You missed the entire day's worth of lessons, I've never heard of the Duke allowing that unless someone was on their deathbed or something," Sacherell asked, genuinely worried. When Alanna looked up, surprised by his considerate words, she could see that all the other squires, Douglass included, had ceased their laughter and were staring at her with interest, obviously waiting for her reply.

"Um. Fine. I'm fine," she muttered, glancing back down again at her banana. Mithros the spotlight was uncomfortable!

"Seriously, Alan, don't even sweat yesterday, OK," a squire told her while reaching for the jam jar. "We've all been there."

"Yeah Alan, we've all been there," a chorus of voices piped up.

"It's not a big deal, Alan."

"Seriously."

"Did I ever tell you about the time I got so drunk I started dancing with a mop? I think I thought it was a lady…the mop head did kind of look like hair, after all…"

"Ha, I can beat that. Once I was so gone, I tried to impress this girl from the Yamani Islands by telling her I spoke fluent Yamani. 'Course, than she started jabbering away in the language, so I was just nodding my head like an idiot and backing away slowly to escape…until I backed into the back of Duke Gareth. Boy was he mad!"

"Oh yeah? I've got an even better story! One time I was do blitzed, I accidentally made a move on my Aunt Beatrice!"

"Ew Justin! That's _gross_!"

"Well my Aunt's really young! She's not exactly bad-looking, OK?"

"Dude, she's your _aunt_, that is SO wrong!"

"The point is, Alan," Sacherell interrupted, ignoring the clamor of squirrely voices around him, "that you shouldn't fret. I know it seems like the end of the world now, but you're probably stressing over nothing and making it into a way bigger deal than it needs to be. Yeah, it was bad, and yeah, you'll be living with the consequences for awhile. But I mean, it's not _that _bad, right? You're still here, you haven't been kicked out or anything, and Duke Gareth will get over it in awhile. So cheer up, 'k?"

Although Alanna was far from happy-go-lucky, Sacherell's pep talk had the desired effect—feeling marginally more cheerful, she managed to swallow the bite of banana that had been wallowing uncomfortably in her mouth since Douglass had first opened his mouth. True, she had messed up, but her fellow squires had a point—it wasn't _that _bad. Not so bad she couldn't recover and bounce back, anyway. She had been making mountains out of mole hills, acting like the end of the world, when really it was more like the end of a small city. Bad, definitely bad…but overall the universe would move on with its life, and so would she.

Her fellow squires clearly didn't think anything less of her (if anything, they probably respected her even more and felt closer to her than ever; her refusal to drink had always struck them as an odd trait in a strapping young squire, one that set her apart even more than her refusal to swim with them during summer time, or go shirtless during wrestling matches.) Duke Gareth, too, would "get over it," as Sacherell had put it—she would just need to work extra hard to regain his respect and prove to himt hat she deserved to be there. George, of course, wouldn't hold a grudge against her, she was sure he'd seen his fair share of vomit during his days in the Dancing Dove, a rowdy inn renowned for its occupants' drinking habits. Even Faithful had already forgiven her and moved on, even deigning to let her scratch him behind the ears that morning.

Jonathan, however, was a different story. She wasn't sure how she and Jon were going to recover, but she'd be damned if she didn't try.

Resolved, if not exactly cheerful, she left the hall with her head held high, determined to bounce back from her mistakes. No one was perfect, all that could be asked of her was that she learn from her mistakes and do everything in her power to rectify them—starting with apologizing to her prince and knight master. Well, apologizing after lessons, that is.

--

Alanna came out of her perfectly executed forward roll with a frown on her face where normally there'd be a proud grin. After all, it was the first time in weeks she had managed to complete the technique that others had mastered so much earlier than she had, but the reason she wasn't smiling was because Shae, she was certain, was ignoring her. He had gone around the room helping every other squire except her, positioning their hands and feet, telling them how to conduct a certain maneuver, and helping them individually as they worked in pairs to grapple each other on the ground. But he had deliberately ignored Alanna and her partner, skipping the pair to move to the next one down the line.

Suddenly, Alanna remembered why he might be mad: not only had she missed all the official lessons of the previous day, but she had also missed the last two (yesterday and this morning's) of their unofficial practice sessions at five forty five in the morning. No wonder he was angry with her!

She waited until the end of class (which thankfully, always ended before lunchtime, which meant she had a few moments to spare to talk to him before rushing off), to approach him as he was putting away the Shang-Do mats.

"Um, excuse me, Master Shang Hawk?"

"Yes, squire?"

Alanna cringed at his distanced tone and the formal, slightly derisive title. Just when she had been building a repertoire with a true-blue Shang master, she had to go and wreck it! "I, I, just wanted to apologize for missing our training sessions. I know it's inexcusable, I was—sick—but I'm truly sorry."

Shae actually stopped putting away the mats in the middle of holding one up and quirked his eyebrows at her, "ah. I thought you were angry with me for my comments at the ball, and had therefore decided not to come to our early morning practices anymore."

"Oh, not at all!" Alanna quickly gushed out, "I still want to train with you—that is, if you'll have me as a student," she added shyly.

Shae gave her an appraising look that she couldn't read. "And you'll show up next time, on time, every time, without fail?"

Alanna eagerly nodded yes.

"Very well," he grinned back at her, finally remembering to set the mat down that he had been holding suspended in mid-air. "Which actually works out quite well. Duke Gareth informed me that all training masters, myself included, were to assign you random chores to do for us, so if anyone asks, your 'chore-time' will be taking place at five forty five in the morning," he winked at her, sliding the last of the mats on the top of the pile. "And by the way, I saw your forward roll this morning, and it was excellent. You almost looked as good doing it as you did in that gold tunic the other night." And with that weird final comment, he saluted her and glided off the floor towards the great hall for lunch.

Alanna paused for a moment, letting his words sink in. The first thing that came to her mind was that Shae was incredibly forgiving and kind—extra practice lessons instead of chores? She clearly got a good deal out of the bargain. The second thing that came to her mind, was that that was the second time the Shang Hawk had complemented her (specifically, complemented how she looked), in one week.

Odd thoughts, she wouldn't lie. Odd thoughts indeed.

--

If Alanna thought Shae was the only training master she'd have to make amends to that day, she was dead wrong. Roger was particularly horrible to her during Magic lessons, though no one but her could discern the loathing in his so-called "humorous" teasing of her, and Etiquette Master, Mathematics Master, and even Myles had something to say to her about her "reckless and irresponsible behavior." Whereas the first two had primarily lectured her in front of the entire class until even the tips of her ears were tinted a lovely shade of puce (which granted, made slightly more sense in Etiquette class, since getting shit-faced was considered very poor form indeed. But mathematics? What did alcohol have to do with algebra? No, Alanna's time spent in the mathematics classroom just proved to her once and for all that all mathematics teachers were truly evil, mean-spirited sadists hell-bent on making their student's lives as miserable as possible.)

It was Myles' last lecture—which thankfully, he reserved for after class, when all the other students had left all ready for dinner—which caught her more by surprise. She wasn't expecting to get chastised by the court drunk; the mere idea dripped of hypocrisy--but like it or not, Myles had a vested interest in her well-being, which included making sure everything was OK with her.

"I hear you had a rough couple of days," Myle said gently, motioning for Alanna to take a seat. "Want to talk about it?"

Alanna shuffled her feet dangling in the air above her chair nervously; she didn't really care if Etiquette Master thought she was a drunken, bumbling fool, but Myles' opinion mattered to her—a lot. And even if he was being kind, she still felt awkward discussing things with him. "Do I have a choice?" she asked pertly.

"You always have a choice in everything you do, even if it doesn't necessarily feel that way," Myles said softly, folding his hands on his desk before him. "Except for when you drink. Then you lose control, and the ability to make choices for yourself. It's something we usually take for granted, the ability to control the course of our own actions and lives."

Alanna shifted uncomfortably in her chair—the disappointment etched in Myle's tone was worse than any lecture Duke Gareth could ever give her. "I know," she muttered, too embarrassed to make eye-contact.

"Alan, please look at me when I'm talking to you," Myles commanded gently. "Don't think I'm here to pass any moral judgments or chastise you—I'm sure you've been getting enough of that already—I just want to talk, make sure everything is going alright with you. I've found that when people, especially nice people such as yourself, are turning to alcohol to solve their problems, it's usually symptomatic of something deeper and more important. Have there been any major life changes in your life recently Alan? Perhaps something going on with your family back at Trebond, or with Thom?"

Alanna shook her head no, though she made it a point to meet his eyes as she did so.

"Hmm. What about school, and training? Is the pressure getting to you?"

Again, Alanna responded negatively. Myles tried again; "and the Prince—your knight-master—all is well in your relationship with him?"

Alanna stared at him pointedly, wondering just how much Myles had guessed about her identity. Of course, it was entirely possible that he had innocently used the word relationship in the platonic sense, but it was odd that he has said '_in_' your relationship…

Alanna gulped, but shook her 'no' one last time. Myles sighed, clearly realizing he wasn't getting anywhere. "Very well, Alan, I can tell there are a million things you rather be doing than discussing this with me right now, such as sticking your head in a fire-ant hill, but it's fine. I understand. You don't need to say anything. Just—don't forget, I'm always here to talk, if you need me."

Alanna left the classroom with tears bristling in the corners of her eyes. What she wouldn't have given to have her own father care for her the way Myles did, she could never express to anyone.

--

Finally, dinner ended, and she was free to leave for her rooms and find Jonathan. She knew she needed to talk to him before the awkward silence between them stretched even farther. She was still a little peeved about the whole Delia affair—she wanted to hear in his own words exactly how much he had voluntarily resisted her charms, after all—and she still didn't appreciate the way he had yelled at her when she walked in the door, though objectively she knew he must have been worried about her not coming home for the night. Overall, however, she was more concerned with swallowing her pride and offering to discuss matters over with him in general.

Unfortunately, he didn't answer the door the first time when she knocked, nor the second when she knocked again an hour later. He was either very good at hiding out away from his rooms, or he was giving her the silent treatment, neither of which she appreciated. Resolving to do something, she scrawled on a piece of paper:

Jon, _we need to talk. –A_

And then used a significant amount of her gift to open the locked door between their rooms so she could leave the note on his desk. Much to her surprise, however, she found Jon calmly reading a book in bed, totally oblivious to the fact that an intruder had just invaded his room until she cleared her throat with an annoyed _ahem_. Why in Mirthros' name hadn't he answered the door?

"Oh, it's you. What do you want, squire?" Jon drawled, not looking up from his book. Though his eyes stayed still instead of scanning across the page, a sign that he wasn't actually reading it anymore.

"I want to talk to you. Obviously," Alanna responded, frowning. That was _twice_ in one day that someone had called her 'squire' in a not-so-respectful tone of voice. What was with Jon that he was behaving like this?

"Well I'm not really in the mood to talk," he shot back, still feigning nonchalance. "We're not, what's the wording? Oh yes, _we're so not doing this right now, ok?_" He pantomimed, mimicking the phrase she had used earlier.

"Oh come on, Jon!" Alanna cried, stamping her foot in annoyance. "Are you really this immature? You were yelling at me when I was hung over as hell after just receiving the world's longest lecture from Duke Gareth, can you blame me for just needing a little space to myself for awhile?"

"Space? Space?" Jon cried, slamming his book down, apparently forgetting that he was pretending not to care, "take all the _space_ you need Alanna, I'm done with this."

Alanna blanched, dismay etched on every feature in her face. "You're…you're done? What…what does that mean?"

"That _means_, Alanna, that I'm not going to be some stupid doormat! You honestly expect me to just sit around and wait for you to come home after being out all night just, just canoodleing with George? Ha! Fat chance!"

Alanna positively balked, shocked at Jon's implication. _That_ was why he was mad—because he thought she had slept with George? Not because she had left him at the ball, or gone past her limits with alcohol, or yelled at him when she came home the next morning—but because he thought she had _slept with George_? Was he _serious?_

"Are you _serious_ Jon?" She asked him, visibly paling for once in her life instead of blushing, "you think I had _sex_ with George the other night?"

"Well didn't you?" Jon spat acidly, "you were gone all night long, and I _know _the man likes you Alanna."

"No!" She positively yelled in response. "How could you think that Jonathan? Yes, I was angry that you were dancing with Delia, but that doesn't mean I'd, I'd cheat on you! What kind of woman do you think I am? And just because George may—stress, _may_, not definitely—have certain, feelings, for me, it doesn't mean he, or I, would ever act on them. Mithros Jon, how could you mistrust me like that?"

Jon looked markedly confused—half of him wasn't sure he could believe her, but the other half wanted nothing more to do just that. If she was lying, it was for good (in the opportunist sense, not the moral sense) reason—making the prince of the realm or your knight-master mad was never a good idea. Then again…when had she ever lied to him?

"Look, Jon," Alanna tried again, "I'm sorry that all this drama happened because I had a little too much to drink, but that's no reason to doubt my loyalty to you. I, I care way too much about us to ever do something like that," she said quietly, shyly. Talking about her feelings like this was hard; she wished she could just say sorry and have it all be over, but she knew Jon needed to hear more than that from her if they were ever to be OK again. "But _you_ in turn need to trust me, OK?"

Silently, Jon nodded, before adding, "I _do_ trust you Alanna…I just don't trust _him_. I know he likes you, I can just tell."

Alanna frowned, "are you still harping on that? First of all, he's one of your closest friends, you shouldn't think so little of him—he's not some horny dog, you know. He's a good guy"—Jon was practically bristling to hear her compliment him, so she switched tracks—"secondly, you don't need to trust him, you need to trust _me_. Even if, and this is a big if, he has some feelings for me, as I already told you, it doesn't mean anything is going to happen because of them. If anything, the fact that George has feelings for me should comfort you!"

"How so?" Jon practically snorted.

"Well," Alanna said slowly, taking her time to spell it out for him, "if George likes me, then that means I could easily have him, if I wanted"—("this isn't comforting me, Alanna" Jon interrupted)—"which_ means_, Jon," she continued , "that if I'm _not_ with him, then I clearly don't want him. Because if he didn't like me, then I wouldn't even have the opportunity to refuse him. Him liking me and me refusing him just more clearly proves that I like _you _the best of all, understand?"

Slowly…very slowly…Jon nodded his acquiescence, apparently appeased and satisfied by her logic. He knew deep down that he'd always feel uncomfortable with Alanna's friendship with George, but she made a good point. She _had_ chosen him over the Rogue, after all…of course, he was a prince, and it was conceivable that that was the only reason she had chosen him over a common thief…but that honestly wasn't Alanna's style. She wasn't interested in titles or the crown, it was one of the most appealing things about dating her—he knew she was in it for him, not for the royal scepter that came with him.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusion and assumed you slept with George," Jon murmured apologetically, sounding sincere. "And I'm also sorry about Delia—I swear Alanna, the woman is hell on Earth, she latched onto my arm the entire night with a grip made of iron!"

Alanna smiled gleefully to hear him call Lady Delia—aka: "the competition"—what was the phrase again? Oh yes, "hell on Earth." Very good. Very good indeed.

Jon grinned to see her smiling, guessing the reason why. "Did I mention I think she's gained a couple pounds too? Yes, definitely fatter than the last time I saw her. And what was up with that hideous dress? Did the woman get dressed in a dungeon closet, for Mithros' sake?"

Alanna at this point was practically giggling with ecstasy to hear him barrage the infamous Lady Delia, her arch nemesis in all matters concerning the prince, with such scathing insults. He was obviously being overly hyperbolic on purpose for her sake—but who cared? The point was, Delia-bashing was one of her favorite recreational activities, and Jonathan was clearly willing to participate in her side-hobby.

"Oh, and she had a disgusting pimple on the middle of her nose. I swear that thing could have eaten an entire colony of cows, it was so big."

"I don't think cows come in colonies," Alanna snickered back, "I think they come in herds."

"Oh really?" Jon said, quirking his eyebrows, "well that's useful information. Maybe we could find a herd for Delia to join, you know, so she can be with her own kind…"

Jon at this point had Alanna in torrents, clutching her sides to stifle the vindictive laughter buzzing in her throat. She knew it was wrong to gossip about people and talk meanly about them behind their backs and take such pervasive pleasure in trash-talking them…but honestly, Lady Delia was such a horrible cow, and it felt so good to be laughing with Jon again instead of receiving the cold shoulder. It was like they were unified against a common enemy...to think all the tension between them over the last twenty four hours had just been over some stupid misunderstanding…

Suddenly Jon interrupted her laughing fit with a soft but passionate kiss to her lips. "Mm, forgive me for being such a jealous prick?" he murmured, resting his forehead against hers in an intimate gesture.

"Only if you forgive me for being a hot-tempered, drunken idiot," Alanna murmured back, tilting her chin up to be kissed again. Jon readily obliged, snaking a strong around her back to clutch her to him fervently. A small moan escaped her lips—it was like all the tension and fighting over the last two days had suddenly turned about face, so the intensity of the feelings were still there, only aimed towards a much more positive outlook…Jon, apparently, felt similarly.

Turning his body and taking her with him, he threw her down on the bed and landed softly on top of her, progressing from kissing her lips, to kissing her chin, then neck, then pulling her tunic over her head to kiss her taught tummy. She ran her fingers through his thick black curls as he caressed her, squirming beneath the bulk of his weight on top of her. The weight felt good though—more than good, actually. It felt right. He was using his arms to prop himself up on his elbows so he wouldn't crush her, but she could still feel the press of his chest against her, and his legs saddling her on either side—and the length of his manhood clearly aroused to the occasion.

"Do you know what the best part about fighting with your lover is, Alanna?" Jon queried, not bothering to disguise the heat in his hot-breathed words, nor cease his constant kisses to her glowing skin.

"No…what?" she asked curiously. As far she was concerned, there was no upshot to fighting.

"Well," Jon grinned at her, "the make-up sex is usually pretty damn hot…"

**Saphron**

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_A/N:_ Ok, this was a hella long chapter, and normally I don't like to bother people by begging shamelessly for reviews, but, y'know…hint hint, nudge nudge, wink wink… 


	8. Chapter 8: Pleasure

**A Torrid Affair**

**By Saphron**

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**_WARNING:_ This chapter contains _explicit sexual_ language and imagery; it is for mature readers only, thank you.**

Seriously guys, I can't stress this enough. I was told that last chapter was "too sexual," which I completely understand, and I have no desires to scare/overwhlem anyone...hence, the VERY VISIBLE WARNING. Please don't blame me if you find this chapter to be "too much"--I very clearly forewarned you that it would be!!!! Reading is ALWAYS OPTIONAL. Thank you. **  
**

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**Chapter 9: The Fine Line Between Pain and Pleasure**

Alanna woke up the next morning after the best night's rest she had gotten in a year. Jonathan had been right—make-up sex _was_ pretty damn hot.

She could still remember vividly the way he had run his strong, manly hands over every inch of her fiery skin, pulling her closer to him with every move, only stopping to firmly cup her breasts and lick and suck her nipples playfully, tugging lightly with his teeth with a sort of primal animal instinct until she squirmed in painful pleasure. She was pretty sure she even had some bruises on her chest _not_ caused by any sword practice sessions, suffice to say.

The sex had been, in a few descriptive words: rough, hard, fast, sweaty, and dirty, definitely dirty--something completely different than the slow and sweet and gentle love-making that she had been experiencing so far. It wasn't that Jon didn't bother to make sure she was sufficiently pleasured—he definitely kept up his trend of spending plenty of foreplay time doing just that—it was more that he had grabbed her with a fierce kind of intensity, almost a need to posses her, take her, fill her. Not only had he thrown her down on the bed and followed shortly thereafter on top of her, but soon he had hopped onto his knees and flipped her on her stomach, pulling her butt towards him by the thighs. Whispering lasciviously in her ear, he had murmured, "ready to try something new?"

Alanna could only nod; the panting she was experiencing too much to let words escape. She gasped in surprise when Jon plunged into her deeply—so incredibly, amazingly, impossibly deeply!—from behind, a position he later informed her was called "doggy style." It was intense as first, the sudden penetration, but soon they fell into a rapid rhythm, with her leaning forwards as he leaned back, and then the two coming, crashing together at the same time, letting the slap of their bodies echo around the tiny room like musical accompaniment to the moans they were both emitting.

Alanna was dizzy with pleasure from the movement, loving the full feeling in her nether regions that Jon was gracing her with. But she wasn't sent over the top until Jon let go off one of her thighs and tucked his hand around under her belly and towards her womanhood. He began gently massaging her pleasure button, maintaining the rocking motion from behind, gradually increasing the intensity and frequency of his fingers in time with the rest of the body, until Alanna began feeling a tightening sensation in her whole body that felt like something building, building, building within her…

"Don't stop," she panted, desperate for Jon to keep doing what he was doing, whatever it was, "_please_, don't stop!" What was this sensation she was experiencing that was making her beg so? It was driving her crazy, primal urges of desire, of need, shot through her every nerve, dancing from place to place like flashbulbs in her brain, overwhelming her normal thought process, taking over every rational thought in her mind, replacing logic with pure feeling, pure, deep, overwhelming feeling…

"I won't," Jon whispered, gritting his teeth to hold back what he feared would come too prematurely. Sweat trickled down his face and bare chest, and he could feel the heat emanating from the pair of them all around the room. Even the windows, if he had bothered to look at them, would have looked distinctly foggy.

He was thrilled and amazed to discover how willing Alanna was to experience this more animalistic version of sex; sweet, gentle love-making with her had been beautiful, of course, but after the tensions of the last few days, the intensity of rough, sweaty, dirty make-up sex was exactly what he needed. But he had half expected her to be too scared or intimidated or shocked to try such a daring new position, and he obviously didn't want to force her into anything--but lo and behold, she seemed to be enjoying it just as much—if not more!—than he was.

Suddenly, she screamed, calling out his name as something exploded within her. Blood rushed in torrents to her face, she could literally feel her cheeks blazing with enough fire to fry and egg, but it was the sensation in her nether regions that was the most astounding thing of all. She felt it deep inside her and at the very edge of her womanhood all at once, a sudden outburst of pleasure that left her reeling in response. It rolled over her in waves, undulating torrents of physical climax washing her in mind-numbing bliss. She couldn't think, she couldn't even breath, everything in her was focused on the electric energy zipping through her, stunning every nerve fiber, leaving a glowing trail of pleasure in its wake.

Seeing happily that she had come, Jon finally allowed himself to join her in his climax, rocking with her as he too released the pressure that had been building inside him for so long. It felt fantastic, _she_ felt fantastic, everything just felt utterly, bloody, _**fantastic. **_Words could never express exactly how much, but as he finally pulled out and flopped down on the bed beside his lover, breathing hard and gazing adoringly at the woman beside him, he knew that making Alanna orgasm felt even better than orgasming himself. There was nothing like pleasuring a woman to give a man a well-deserved sense of satisfaction, not to mention the fabulous ego boost that accompanied it.

Snaking a long arm around her to hug his panting squire beside him, Jonathan closed his eyes and within seconds fell blissfully asleep, utterly exhausted by the physical exertions of the night. Alanna followed him to slumberland shortly therefore, still twitching slightly and reveling in the sensations she had experienced for the first time that night.

_So __**this**__ is why people are so crazy about sex…!_ Was her final thought before passing out for the night in Jonathan's glistening arms, a warm smile pressed permanently to her face.

--

George sighed to himself as led his men on a raid in the middle of the night to the house of a local loan-shark, a man who had been taking advantage of the rules of usury a bit too much for the Rogue and his follower's liking. But his mind was not on the task at hand, too busily was he contemplating what could have gotten into Alanna to make her drink so much the other night. He hadn't seen her since her little escapade at the Dancing Dove, though that was only to be expected (Stephan had passed on the word that she was restricted to the palace grounds for a month at least, a thought which made George groan with displeasure. Only three and a half more weeks…he couldn't help but count down the days to himself).

Seriously though…what had gotten into her to behave like that? Thinking back, when she had walked in the door she hadn't exactly been radiating with positivity. In fact, it seemed like she was downing shots faster than Lightfingers, explicitly with a frown on her face—a frown George knew all too well from the inn patrons who found the solution to all their problems at the bottom of a deep draught of ale. Something was bothering her, that much was certain. But what could it be?

It couldn't be training that was getting her down; with the exception of wrestling, she excelled at everything she set her mind too, be it swordplay or horsemanship or jousting. George had no doubt about her fighting abilities, that much he was certain. And if it had been another bully bothering her, another Ralon, for example, she would have just told him, and she certainly wouldn't have resorted to drinking to handle it.

Or if it were Roger she was worried about, or simply missing Thom, again she would have let him know—he was her confidant in all matters concerning both those men, after all. Although she was friends with the other squires and knights, he couldn't imagine her drinking herself under the table just for having a little spat with them, she wasn't nearly close enough to them to illicit such a strong reaction from her. Gary, Raoul, maybe, Jon too, of course, but if it were Jon she had fought with—

Suddenly, George knew. With a blinding clarity that only the King of Thieves could possibly posses, he knew Alanna's odd behavior had _something_ to do with Jonathan. He wasn't sure what exactly, but he knew he was onto something. It was the only answer that conceivably made sense; he was the only person (besides, George liked to think, himself), that could possibly illicit such a strong and uncharacteristic reaction from her. And the only person she would never admit to having problems with to him, since Jon was, of course, both their friends and, George secretly knew, his fiercest competition in the battle for Alanna's heart. Something was going on there between, and he'd be damned if he didn't find out what it was.

But Mithros, if he was _hurting_ her in any way…he'd have a _VERY_ angry Rogue on his hands to deal with—and the King of the Thieves was _not_ someone it was wise to anger. George's ear collection stood in stark testimony to _that_….

--

Alanna groaned as Shae forced her into a compromising defensive position, twisting her arm and applying the lightest of pressure to it, effectively umbering her elbow until she tapped out from the twinge of pain. What she wouldn't give to be able to pin people like that!

_Jonathan pinned me last night_, she thought to herself secretively, her thoughts wandering of their own accord. _Though somehow, I don't think his particular tactics could apply to fighting strategies…_

Shae was lecturing her about Shang-Do, unaware that Alanna's thoughts were elsewhere. He informed her absent mind that the style bore many similarities to wrestling, including a series of interesting take-down techniques and grappling maneuvers that could have one's opponent squirming in displeasure. But it also contained marked differences, such as deadly choke-holds and a full range of body motions via twisting and flipping one's limbs. One move, for example, involved catching your opponent's ankle to trip them, then grabbing their collar, yanking them up, pulling them on top of you towards the ground, flipping them with your feet, and turning to pin their shoulder blades down to the ground. If you were feeling particularly vindictive, a quick cross-handed hold of the collar would cut off blood circulation nicely, effectively choking them, potentially to death.

"Are you listening, Squire Alan?" He queried, snapping her back to reality. She nodded, and he gently released her, smiling as he held out a hand to pull her up. She accepted, but was surprised when he squeezed her hand before letting it go. He looked nearly as surprised by the gesture as she did, however, and quickly let go as she moved hastily towards a nearby bench to grab a towel to dry herself off.

Shae recovered in no time, hiding any surprise he might have felt over the gesture, and took to leaning casually against a structural beam as she patted herself off. He looked completely refreshed, like he hadn't just spent that last hour cycling through a series of rapid kicks and punches, rolling tumbles and falls, and even some impressive board-breaking work. Alanna, on the other hand, was panting hard and wiping enough sweat off her brow to wring her towel afterwards.

_Mirthros, I'm almost as sweaty now as I was last night..._ She thought to herself, fighting the blush that threatened to creep over her features as she recalled the incredible orgasm she had experienced merely hours earlier.

"I'm really impressed at your commitment," Shae said casually to her, unaware that her thoughts were elsewhere. "You've already come along way. Keep it up and you'll be ready to spar in no time. Now, are you ready to go again? It's throwing time!"

Alanna snapped to, realizing she needed to save memory-savoring time for later. She focused mentally as Shae taught her how to hold the sleeves of her opponent, twist around and place her feet parallel in front of them while extending their right arm outwards and hooking their left armpit with her opposite arm, bend her knees and twist her hips to effectively throw them over her hip and onto the ground. It took her a few tries to get it right, but eventually she got the hang of it.

Deciding to give her a real challenge, after Alanna flipped him, Shae surprised her by pulling her down to the mat and twisting his body to roll on top of her, hooking his arms to capture her wrist and umber her right elbow. Alanna growled lightheartedly—_just_ when she had been feeling good about herself for mastering a new technique, the Shang Hawk had to up her one with his lightning-fast reflexes.

He grinned down at her, clearly pleased to have taken her by surprise, before suddenly pausing as he noticed the chain that had slipped out from beneath her tunic when she had soared through the air. It contained the amethyst ember stone the Goddess had given her when she first became Jonathan's squire, as well as the anti-pregnancy charm Mistress Cooper had given her when she first entertained the (then vague and basically preposterous thought) of becoming more than Jonathan's squire. "Pretty necklace," he said cheerily, staring at the gorgeous and clearly valuable contents of the chain, "where'd you get it?"

Alanna's eyed widened—did he know it was _pregnancy charm_ around her neck? It appeared, however, that he was referring to the stone, not the metal symbol. "I love the color, it totally matches your eyes."

Alanna blinked rapidly, unsure how to respond. It appeared he hadn't noticed the charm after all—perhaps he had the Gift, and suspected that the stone was a divine gift, and was far more focused on that than any tiny metal charm? Yet he hadn't asked if it was magic, he has asked where she had gotten it…

"Thanks," she finally replied, blushing fiercely. It wasn't exactly manly for a squire to wear a necklace, even one hidden under his tunic. "I, uh, got it from a friend. It—it has sentimental value," she tried by way of explanation, searching vainly for any reason at all that a squire might wear something as feminine as a necklace. Her brain, however, had apparently decided to go on strike that morning—sentimental value? Hardly more manly than just wearing a necklace for fashion's sake.

But Shae, apparently, didn't think her jewelry choices were in the slightest bit odd. "Well your friend has good taste, it's quite fetching," he said easily, before pulling himself to his feet (he had still been on top of her, pinning her to the ground, during their entire exchange). "I wish I could say the same about my friends!"

Alanna nodded vaguely, tucking the chain back into her shirt. Mithros, she had to be more careful with it. Maybe she should leave it off, except when she was in bed with Jonathan? But what if in the heat of the moment she forgot to put it back on? Except, she wouldn't forget something as important as that…

Resolving to worry about it later, she helped put away the training mats with Shae, who was busy babbling amount some god-awful birthday present he once received from one his friends that apparently involved tight leather pants in a horrid shade of maroon. The normally shy man had suddenly bloomed before her very eyes, becoming talkative and easy-going, opening up to her conversationally and recalling stories from his past in a way he seldom seemed to do with other members of the Tortallan Court. If Alanna had been paying attention, she would have noticed Shae positively buzzing with energy, but she was too consumed by thoughts of her chain and whether she should leave it off in the future, knowing that not a single one of her other guy friends would be caught dead wearing a necklace.

She didn't even stop to think about the fact that not a single one of her guy friends had ever even _noticed_ a necklace before, let alone concluded that it "totally" matched the wearer's eyes…

**Saphron**

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_A/N:_ Ok, you gotta admit…that was pretty steamy, yes? Hehe. I love a little smut every now and then. I don't want this fic to be trashy, but at the same time, it's going to very sexual—as the title implies, a _torrid_ affair (not, nice affair. Not, gentle, affair. Not utterly insipid and boring and basically pointless to write affair, no.) If that sexuality is too much to handle, I won't be offended if you cease reading. Just please consider yourself forewarned, alright kiddies? ;) 


	9. Chapter 9: Falls and Fights

**A Torrid Affair**

**By Saphron**

_A/N:_ Oohah, I adore this chapter! This was actually my original conception for the story, but I decided to waylay the scene a bit in order to introduce other things first, but yes. I've been dying to write this chappie for ages, so I hope you enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter 9: Falls and Fights**

The autumn leaves crunched underfoot as Alanna made her way back from the training courts. They made a nice sharp, staccato accompaniment to the thoughts swirling in her head. Shae had been acting, for lack of a better word, really, really weirdly lately. When they were alone during their private morning sessions he was all energy, chatting with her conversationally and giving her the occasional hand-squeeze—and once, even a full hug—of encouragement (which were odd enough by themselves; the normally shy Shang Hawk didn't really strike Alanna as a touchy-feely person at all). But when they were in class together with the other squires, he was polite yet distanced—almost as if he were afraid of her. But what did he possibly have to be scared of? She couldn't understand how one person could have such multiple personalities, yet she didn't have time to worry about it now. She was on her way to the city!

Today was the last day of her probation, a fact she was extremely grateful for. It had been a long, hard month of extra chores under the Duke's watchful eye, and at times she had felt like she was going stir-crazy after being restricted to the palace grounds for so long. Now she was mercifully free, and after completing all her normal morning classes, had been given the day off by her knight-master thanks to a little clever pouting and widened violet eyes last night.

(The days alternated, so on some afternoons she had more classes, but on other afternoons she had squire's duty, which included any range of activities, from assisting visiting guests to running errands for local desk-knights to, most commonly, serving her resident knight-master. Today was one of the latter types of afternoon, which meant that all that stood in her way between an afternoon of pure freedom and an afternoon of drudgery was convincing Jonathan of the merits of allowing his squire a bit of a restorative vacation for herself.)

Alanna never thought she'd be the kind of girl who resorted to such ridiculous tactics as pouting and eye-widening to manipulate men into doing what she wanted them to do, but after observing Delia the Court Flirt try such simple gestures on half the palace's population—the male half, that is, though even the occasional female succumbed to such artifices—she couldn't resist trying them out herself. All in all, she preferred the more direct and honest way of simply asking for what she wanted flat-out, but Jonathan, perhaps suspecting that his monopoly of her time was coming to swift end with the end of her probation, was in a particularly stubborn mood, and she had had to resort to womanly subtly to convince him to give her the afternoon off. Nonetheless, he had eventually ceded, which meant she was free to do whatever she wished. And the first thing she wished to do was ride into the city!

Humming to herself as she saddled Moonlight, she couldn't help but revel in the cool sunshine dappling the red and gold foliage wavering outside the stable doors. Fall had fallen upon them with a rush of sparrows' wings and ripened wheat, crisp and clear and fertile, replacing the hazy summer days with a season of clarity and conviction. It was the perfect weather for a ride; cold, but not too cold, cloudy enough to ensnare the harsh glare of the sun in its tenuous web, but not so cloudy that rain threatened on the horizon. Alanna was very much looking forward to slipping through Corus's narrow cobblestone streets with quiet ease, people-watching and perhaps snagging some fruit along the way to munch on before she reached her destination, where fruit was lacking on the menu.

As she finished placing Moonlight's bridle with one hand, she fingered with the other the touchstone attached to a tanned leather cord in her pocket—a magical device she had spent weeks manufacturing, pouring her Gift into the object in twenty-minute chunks of time—and prayed George would appreciate the handmade gift she had crafted for him as a thank-you for taking care of her a month ago when she had been sick all over his room.

She had gotten the idea from her own amethyst ember-stone, and decided to reconstruct a similar device that gave off perpetual light as soon as the wearer touched it (touching it twice then extinguished the tiny light.) She figured it was the perfect present to give to a thief who dabbled in darkness and shadows, especially a thief who didn't have the Gift himself, or at least, not the same form of the Gift that she had that included light-conjuring. (George's gift, which she didn't fully understand, had something to do with intuition and instinct and people, but he hardly had the literal magical abilities Alanna possessed).

Of course, she had been reluctant to dabble with such advanced magic at first—her Gift always scared her, there was no getting around that, but lately she had been on a magnificent phobia-countering streak and had managed to overcome many of her fears, not least of which was love; what was a fear of magic next to that?—but Jon had helped her out upon request, and the thing was finally complete. He had been curious, of course, as to what the object was for, since Alanna had the Gift and could always conjure a small light if need be. She had simply told him it was a present for someone who had been kind enough to take her under his wing and assist her, for which Jon automatically assumed she was taking about Shae, whom as far as he knew didn't possess any magical abilities and could easily find a practical use for the touchstone.

While not explicitly lying to him (unless one counted lies by omission), Alanna had not disabused him of this notion, just like she had let him continue to think that he had been her first kiss—such insignificant detail's as the gift's recipient, or the giver of her first kiss, both of which happened to pertain to George, hardly mattered, she rationalized. Besides, she told Moonlight plaintively, "what Jon doesn't know won't hurt him."

"What do you mean, what I don't know won't hurt me?" A voice called out inquisitively from behind her. Alanna froze in her tracks—had Jon actually followed her to the stables?

"Did you follow me to the stables?" She asked him, narrow-eyed. How come she had the feeling that Jon's possessiveness was a tad too obsessive at times? Although she had put the whole debacle behind her, she still hadn't forgotten the fact that Jonathan had quite obviously dragged a chair into the middle of her room once and sat in it all night long waiting for her to come after her drunken escapade at the Dancing Dove. That was just creepy. There was no denying that.

Jon shrugged. "I figured that the first thing you'd want to do on your first day of freedom in a month was ride into the city, so I thought I'd keep you company."

Alanna frowned, "why didn't you just ask me if you could come?"

Jon snorted, "I hardly need your permission to ride into the city with my squire if I want to." He had already started saddling Darkness, clearly under the assumption he was coming, no if, ands, or buts about it.

Alanna's eyes narrowed, if it were possible, even farther. Yes, she understood that Jonathan was both her knight-master and prince, and as such was entitled to a very high degree of authority over her. But that didn't mean she found his royal arrogance 'cute' at all. Loving relationships were _supposed_ to be mutual, with both partners having equal sway and respect for one another, and therein lay the problem of dating her political and social superior: in the palace, Jon was her overlord, but in bed, they were equals. The problems inherit in mixing the two were glaringly obvious in moments just like this.

Biting down her tempter (she had been getting relatively good at that lately, it felt like, probably because she had a lot of practice doing so), she decided to diffuse the problem through stealth instead of an outright bickering match. "Well you should have asked, because I'm riding to town to see Mistress Cooper for, ah, girl-stuff. You wouldn't be interested."

Jon shrugged. "I don't mind, I actually haven't seen George's mother in awhile now and it'd be nice to say hello."

Alanna let out a bark of frustration. Jon was proving extremely adamant! "But you'll be _bored_, we, erm, have plans to go shopping for shoes together."

"I'm sure it's fine," Jon said smoothly, swinging onto Darkness' back. "I could use some new boots myself."

"…and, we'll be talking about woman stuff. Y'know…like _periods_," she tried one final time, knowing that men's greatest fear after being eaten alive by wild animals was probably a woman's monthly menstrual cycle…alas, again, to no avail.

"I really don't mind," he responded, though a nearly imperceivable twitch flitted across his facial features, revealing the truth of his discomfort.

Alanna had no choice at this point but to change her original plans with a reluctant sigh and head to Mistress Cooper's house instead of the Dancing Dove, much to her dismay. She just prayed the older woman would get the hint when she loudly exclaimed something along the lines of, 'so are you ready for our shopping trip that we've been _planning for ages_?' and play along with her. Mithros knew what'd she do if the woman just gave her a quizzical look and said 'what plans?'

Luckily for Alanna, however, George's mother wasn't home when she knocked, presumably out on a healing errand of some sort, much to her relief.

"I thought you said you two had plans together? How come she's not home?" Jon asked her, staring pointedly.

Alanna attempted a shrug, "she probably just forgot. She's an elderly woman Jon, it's not like her memory is what it used to be."

Jon apparently accepted that explanation, clearly relieved to have avoided shoe-shopping extravaganzas and discussions about sanitary napkins. "What should we do now instead?" he asked her brightly.

Alanna shrugged again, trying to pass off the idea as casually as possible. "Well if we can't visit George's mother, why don't we just visit George? He can pass on that 'hello' you were just dying to give Mistress Cooper," she responded sweetly, catching him at his own game.

Jon frowned, "I don't know…I don't really feel like going to the Dancing Dove at the moment, it's always so crowded and stuffy in there. Maybe next time."

"Well _you_ might not feel like going, but _I_ do," Alanna snorted back, determined to win this verbal sparring match between the two of them if it was the last thing she ever did. "No one says you have to come though."

Jon's eyes widened—his attempts to dissuade Alanna clearly weren't succeeding. He couldn't very well forbid her to go, even as her knight-master and prince (well he could, but without a sound reason for his actions he knew she'd just get extremely angry and probably decide to ignore him anyway). Apparently deciding that accompanng her was better than just inciting her to go by herself, he grimaced and steered his mount behind her as she lead them to the inn.

Once there, they dismounted and handed their horses off to the hostler before entering the smoky tavern where their favorite thief resided among his circle of loyal followers. A chorus of 'hellos' greeted 'Squire Alan' and 'Johnny' as they ducked under the doorway, the former of which received a cacophony of pert questions like, 'stopped yakin' yer guts out yet, laddy?' and 'so will we be seeing a repeat performance like last time, Alan?', the latter of which simply met with 'so ar eye ready t' bet all yer coppers on a game o' dice, mate?'

Alanna and Jon ignored them all, making a beeline towards George's private circle. The Rogue welcomed them, beconing them to take a seat, and it wasn't long before George had Alanna in stitches with laughter as he recounted an amusing tale about his latest raid of a loan-shark's house, and how Lightfingers had accidentally set his own pants on fire when trying to get a light going.

The story, of course, reminded her of the touchstone in her pocket, and briefly she contemplated giving it to George right then and there. But Jon was under the assumption that it was meant for Shae, and while she knew he wouldn't dare make a scene then and there in the Dancing Dove, she didn't want to think about the fuss he might make later when they were alone together in their rooms.

Fortunately, at that very moment some of George's men managed to wheedle Jon into playing just one game of dice with them by making squawking noises and calling him chicken—a title Jon's pride could never allow him to accept. Alanna took the opportunity to motion to George that'd she like to go upstairs to his room to discuss "business," as they coded it, and he quickly assented.

Once alone in his room together, she rushed out a garbled apology to him, mixing up how sorry she was for getting sick all over his room with how she would have apologized him sooner but she was restricted to the palace and by the way she made this little gift for him she hoped he liked it but if not of course he didn't have to keep it and by the way if Jon asked she had had plans with his mother today to go shoe shopping and—

George interrupted her rambling speech with a large hand over her mouth and a twinkle of mirth dancing in the corners of his eyes. "No 'pologies necessary 'Lanna," he smiled kindly at her, "it's m'fault anyway for orderin' ye that beer, I never shoulda letcha drink alcohol like that. Shoulda stuck to good ol' lemonade."

Alanna muttered that she was _seventeen years old_ thankyouverymuch and therefore plenty old enough to drink if she so desired, but after last month's experience she had decided that maybe it was best to stick to the fruit juice after all.

"Wise decision," George nodded solemnly at her, teasing her in his friendly way that lacked the sharp edge her fellow squires sometimes whet their tongues on. "An' I love th' stone, I'll put it on right now!"

Alanna smiled happily to herself—George liked his present! She watched as he stretched his arms to knot the leather cord behind his neck, noticing how his shirt clung to the brawny muscles of his chest and forearms as he did so. She blinked—where did such odd thoughts come from? Shaking her head to clear them, she was mercifully distracted by the sound of George's door banging open with a thunderous BOOM.

Jon stood panting in the doorway with his hair rumpled upwards like a slightly deranged mad man; clearly he had bolted up the short flight of stairs as if the entire inn was ablaze in flames.

"Where's th' fire lad?" George asked him, laughing.

Jon barely restrained himself from glaring at the thief—the thief who had been _alone in his bedroom with __**my**__ woman!_ He thought viciously to himself. He knew Alanna and George had only been alone together for a few minutes tops, and obviously nothing remotely non-platonic had occurred between them, but he still didn't like the thought of them secretively discussing things without him present—what had Alanna said earlier, after all, 'what Jon doesn't know won't hurt him'? Yeah, that was more than a little suspicious, that was for sure. Why in Mithros' named did he allow himself to get roped into a game of dice again? Stupid Lightfingers!

Smoothing a hand over his crumpled hair, Jonathan replied lightly, "no fire, I just wanted to make sure I remembered to tell you to pass on my salutations to your mother, that's all."

George quirked an eyebrow, clearly smart and gifted enough to realize that was just a shambled pretext—lie detection was his specialty, after all. But he let it go, figuring it wasn't worth arguing about. Jon had been acting odd lately—whenever he rode into the city alone to visit him, which, granted, had been far less frequent than in yester years, he was perfectly friendly. But if ever George brought up mention of Alanna, he had a tendency to clamp his mouth shut like a clam jealously guarding his lone pearl, and lately George had gotten tired of his moodiness. He still suspected that Jon had something to do with Alanna being so upset when she wandered into the Dancing Dove one month ago, but he had no proof, and George wasn't a man to act irrationally without proof. No, he knew something was going on, but he was a patient man, and he could wait to let fate unfold herself in whatever way she chose fit.

"Why don' we all take a seat, eh?" George transitioned smoothly, motioning Jon and Alanna to the comfortable arm chairs and couch by his fireplace. "I'll pour th' drinks. What's yer poison tonight, Jon? Whiskey, scotch? 'Lanna's already 'greed to Lemonade, o'course," George laughed easily, pouring himself a whiskey on the rocks. It was the most manly drink in the history of alcoholic beverages, and George definitely knew that as he poured it for himself.

Jon frowned at the thief's casual use of a nickname for Alanna—'Lanna. Granted, the name wasn't extremely original or suspicious or anything, but it still smacked of an intimacy that made the hairs on the back of Jon's neck prickle and stand up on end. Seeing George's choice of beverage (when normally the larger man just took a plain, simple beer), Jon decided to fight fire with fire, and requested the same.

George shrugged, handing Jon his glass and taking a seat opposite the pair of his palace friends perched on the lone couch. There was a healthy two feet of space between them, but George still would have preferred if they had sat in separate armchairs instead.

"So…" Alanna began awkwardly, feeling an uncomfortable silence stretch across the room. "What's new, George?"

"Oh, not too much, just up t' m'usual tricks an' what have you. This _present_ ye gave me 'Lanna will come in mighty handy for that, I'd wager," the thief drawled easily, emphasizing the word 'present' with obvious intention. He was determined to root out what exactly was going on between Jon and Alanna one way or another, and somehow he had the suspicion that Alanna had given him the gift in privacy for a reason...a reason he wanted to know...

Jon positively bristled at his words, narrowing his eyes suspiciously and asking plaintively, "_what_ present?" His girlfriend was giving another man presents? That didn't bode well...

Alanna resisted the urge to slap her forehead in exasperation, settling for doing so mentally. Mithros, what was George thinking? Was he deliberately trying to incite Jon? But no, that didn't make any sense, George didn't know that Alanna and Jon were a couple and that Jon tended to be a bit jealous about it, how could he possibly know her gift to him was supposed to be a secret?

"Why, this 'ere lovely touchstone that she made for me, see? Ain't it neat? Light's up wit' just a simple touch, even tho' I don' 'ave th' gift. Must been mighty hard t' make I'm sure," George boasted, dangling the charm in front of a silently enraged Jon.

"Yes. It was rather difficult to make._ I_ would know, seeing as I was the one who helped her make it," he said icily—Alanna had told him the gift was for Shae, not George! Or, had she? He couldn't really remember, even after wracking his brains for the answer…but he _was_ positive she had never mentioned anything about giving it to George…

"Anyway guys," Alanna interpreted, desperate to distract the two bristling men staring one another down. "Can you believe I have my Ordeal in less than a year? Doesn't time just fly by?" she chuckled nervously. Normally, she loathed thinking about the ordeal to come in the Chamber of Secrets, but anything was better than this awkward silence!

But oddly, the guys didn't react to her in the slightest. They just sat in stony silence, staring at one another and taking deep gulps of their respective drinks, as if they were involved in some silent, unknown contest only competing males in the wilds were privy to.

"Um, hello? Are you guys listening to me?" She frowned, crinkling her brow in displeasure. This was so not how she envisioned her first day of freedom in a month! Any rational person would assume that she'd been having a blast hanging out with the two people in the world besides immediate family whom she was closest to, and yet, the very opposite seemed to be true. What was going on here? Why was there so much tension in the room, and how could she diffuse it?

"Huh? Oh, 'Lanna, sorry, what were ye saying again?" George shook his head.

Alanna rolled her eyes in frustration; this was absolutely ridiculous. Here they were, two fully grown men acting like a pair of immature children—it was insane! Even though they were (she was reluctant to admit to herself) seemingly fighting over her (what other explanation could there be? she had noticed a jealous streak in Jon lately, though this was the first time she was catching a glimpse of something similar in George), neither one of them was even bothering to pay attention to her! If She was allegedly the object worth squabbling about, why were they both ignoring her? She could feel her temper rise within her, and hastily attempted to squash it down.

"Forget it," she muttered, only a hint of anger tinting her voice. That hint grew, however, as Jon slung a possessive arm around her shoulders, not even looking at her as he did so, but rather staring squarely at the thief, as if daring him to object.

George steepled his hands, quietly taking in the scene before him. 'Jon is acting mighty friendly towards Alanna' seemed like the understatement of the century at the moment.

Alanna squirmed out from under his hold, downing her lemonade as a pretext for jumping up to get more. She refilled her cup, mentally chastising herself for ever allowing Jon to accompany her. She should have just left him at Mistress Cooper's, or in the stables, or better yet, in the desert. Why had she ever rescued him from the Black City again?

Returning to the couch—and making sure there was a good three feet of room between them at least this time—she sipped her lemonade and vainly attempted to make neutral small talk—attempts that were not working very well. Jon, if anything, appeared more eager than ever to scooch closer and wrap a possessive octopus arm around her, and even took to nuzzling her neck—while still maintaining eye-contact with George—and placing his free hand possessively on her thigh.

"_Cut it out_," she hissed at him under her breath. Normally she didn't object to a little nuzzling from her favorite crown prince, but they were in public for Mithros' sake! They were sitting right in front of George, surely there was no way such behavior could possibly be deemed socially appropriate! Public displays of affection, the likes of which she had seen Delia resort to in the most disgusting of ways, were beyond tacky, not to mention plain disrespectful. At that moment, she couldn't believe she was dating such a jealous, stubborn prick. How was it that he could be completely sweet and tender, or even charmingly sexy, and the next just plain obnoxious? Whatever had gotten into Jon to behave so rudely _had_ to stop, one way or another. She didn't care if it looked odd to physically lift up his arm and escape his grip, she was doing so, for Mithros' sake, and Jon would just have to deal.

Jon though, apparently, wasn't ready to give up the battle just yet. "Why?" he said loudly, clearly ignoring her implied request for secrecy. "It's just George. We might as well tell him, Alanna, he's going to find out sooner or later."

"Tell me what?" George asked, though he had a sinking feeling he already knew the answer.

Silently, Alanna moaned in her mind—could things possibly get any worse? Yes, she had planned on telling George about her and Jon eventually, she'd have to, of course, at some point—but not like this. Not now, not when there was so much tension in the room, not when the pair of them were bristling at each other like a pair of mangy dogs fighting for a scrap of meat. She had to do something quick to distract them both, or she'd have a big problem on her hands to deal with.

"Nothing, it's nothing, just that, ah, I've been training with the Shang Hawk for awhile, and, ah, he's taught me some pretty cool moves. Jon wants me to show them to you George, don't you Jon?" She would have kicked him in the ankle if they had been sitting together under a tablecloth, but alas, she had to settle for glaring meaningfully at him.

"Well, actually—" Jon began, clearly ignoring her. But Alanna was too quick for him; with lightning-fast reflexes, she literally dashed behind Jon and put him in a mean headlock, chocking him effectively enough so he couldn't talk but not hard enough that she'd actually kill him. Probably.

"Ha, see? Look at this cool choking technique!" she said with a strangled, high-pitched voice. Thanks Mithros Shae had shown her how to do this at least 50 times…

Jon just gagged and coughed as she let go, unable to gather enough breath to speak with. Alanna took advantage of his debilitation to turn to George and convince him to let her demonstrate a different technique on him—anything to distract the pair from the inevitability of Jon spilling his guts about their torrid affair.

George looked wary—he had seen, much to his delight, yet also to his slight sense of foreboding—a punitive 5 foot tall women just completely incapacitate a fully grown knight of the realm with a mere flick of her wrist. Although part of him was thrilled to see Jon gagging on his own arrogance, another part of him was scared for his life that Alanna would equally emasculate him then and there on the spot. But knowing he could never refuse the love of his life anything her heart desired, even if it included administering a healthy dose of pain to him, he murmured as enthusiastically as possible, "Course lass, I'd , er, love that."

He stood up with a wary smile, bracing himself to get chocked or some other such torture, and ignoring a (still gagging) Jon glare daggers into his back.

In one fluid motion, Alanna grabbed George by the wrists and tripped him artfully as Shae had taught her, following up by pinning him to the ground with a simple arm lock. The limited size of the room, and the fact that George was probably one and a half times her weight at least, prevented her from being able to fully flip him over her hip, but that was probably a good thing, seeing as there were no crash mats around and she didn't want to hurt him

"Very impressive, lass," George grinned up at her, though secretly he was biting down the rising heat rushing to his face as his body realized the fact that Alanna was sprawled on top of him, albeit not exactly in the way he had envisioned for so long. Mercifully, at least, the fall had been relatively gentile, and at least he hadn't been choked half to death like poor Jon had been. (He was almost feeling sorry for the Prince—who was _still_ coughing roughly into his sleeve...)

Jon, as a man, noticed what Alanna was completely oblivious to, and practically growled as he recovered from his gagging fit and stood up to join the fray. He couldn't believe George's lecherous grin! How dare he lust after _his_ woman? Such madness had to be stopped!

In a blink of the eye, Jon managed to yank Alanna up by her arm, dragging her into the air and tugging her back towards him. The sudden motion was totally uncharacteristic for him, and at least in part fueled by the angry whiskey he had gulped down earlier, but he felt he had to do _something _to get her away from the damn thief and his damn arousal.

"Ow! Hey, Jon, stop that," she snapped at him, more surprised than hurt by his movement but still deeply annoyed. Hadn't anyone noticed that she had just executed a perfect Shang-Do technique? Did _no one_ care about her newfound fighting skills? And what in the hell gave Jon the right to touch her like that? She wasn't a bloody piece of furniture he could just yank around at his heart's desire!

But uttering that one simple word—_ow_—which really, wasn't even a word at all, more so a vernacular monosyllabic expression, apparently had a _very_ strong effect on the King of Thieves. An effect that did not bode well for either Jon or himself, they would all soon discover.

George had been contemplating for an entire month the reason Alanna had been so upset during her last visit, and had concluded that it had something to do with Jon--possibly with Jon hurting her, albeit, he had assumed, in an emotional way. But here was living proof right before his eyes--she had said 'ow' for Mithros sake!--and the combination of a month's serious brooding on the subject with the visual reality performed mere seconds earlier was enough to send George toppling over the un-crossable line. He knew it was an extremely dumb thing to do before he did it; he knew it'd probably wreck his friendship with Jon entirely not to mention the tenuous political alliance between the lower city and the nobility; he even knew Alanna probably wouldn't see it as the noble deed of heroic chivalry he saw it as, and that he'd probably regret it later--but he did it anyway. For some unfathomable reason, despite all the logical voices in his head telling him not to, he did it anyway. And once it was done, there was no taking it back.

Getting to his feet faster than a man of his large size was expected to be able to, he pulled back his right fist and SLAM, punched Jon square in the face, sending the prince toppling over the plushy couch and onto the hardwood floor below in a ridiculously comic moment that would have been absurdly hilarious if it hadn't been so deeply problematical. Like Jon's previous gesture, the move was totally out of character for the normally level-headed and even-tempered rogue, but, like the prince, alcohol had a funny tendency to bring out the masculine urge to brawl in him.

"GEORGE!" Alanna screamed at him, shocked that he had dared hit the Prince to the realm. What in the hell was he thinking?! He could get _killed_ for less!

"_That_ was for touchin' Alanna like that an' makin' her say 'ow,'" George told Jon, rubbing his bruised knuckles ruefully and staring down at the younger man as he staggered to his feet. "An' if I _ever_ 'ear you did it again, I'll—"

But the thief never got to finish his sentence. George may have been an expert street fighter, but Jonathan was still a fully trained knight of the realm, and he had managed to clamor to his feet surprisingly quickly for a man who had just been hit that hard. Jon's fist made contact with George's jaw, effectively interpreting the train of speech, before George retaliated with a punch to his stomach which Jon just barely managed to block. (For a brief second, Jon had considered drawing his sword on the untrained man, but years of training had drilled into him that doing so was not only the antithesis of chivalrous behavior, but just downright dumb, not to mention dangerous. He knew on some subconscious level he didn't actually want to kill the man who had been such a close friend for years--though he was sorely tempted in his fantasies--but that didn't mean he was immune to the feelings of anger bubbling inside him at the thief's insolent gall. Retaliation was the only acceptable means of response, and fist-fighting, even if he were to lose to the natural born street fighter, was by far the best means of accomplishing said retaliation.)

Alanna at this point was screaming shrilly at them both, but it didn't seem to have any effect on the brawling men who were currently rolling around the floor of George's room knocking into every conceivable breakable and fragile object, making a huge mess of the place and of each other's faces.

Alanna was not the kind of girl who enjoyed the attention of two men fighting over her, not by a long shot, and neither was she the kind of girl who would just helplessly sit back, wringing her hands and wailing 'oh woe is me! Oh, no, oh woe!' and fainting in dismay. She was the kind of girl who, when angered—as she was now to a degree she had never reached before in her entire life—strode right into the thick of the fray and interrupted things herself.

Bellowing at them in her loudest, most commanding voice she could muster, she literally waded between the brawling pair and shoved them both apart, leaving them panting as they vainly tried to reach around her with far-missing swings. George had a cut over his left eyebrow that was bleeding fiercely, and already both of Jon's eyes were starting to purple and swell around the edges. Fearing she couldn't hold them back much longer, she fell upon plan B, her last resort, an option she hated to use but knew she had no choice. In one burst of enraged energy, a blast of purple light shot out of her palms in opposite directions, sending the two men sprawling to the floor, where they each lay, utterly unconscious, having been blasted with the most powerful magic Alanna had ever mustered.

Breathing heavily and still seeing red, Alanna muttered to herself, "_that's_ what you get for being the world's biggest _idiots_."

**Saphron**

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_A/N:_ Oh my goodness, I think I got just a tad carried away with the brawl scene in this chapter…I actually didn't intend that in its original conception…ah well, everyone loves a could fight every now and then! Tehe. Mm, jealously. Yum. 


	10. Chapter 10: Apologies and ManHugs

**A Torrid Affair**

**By Saphron**

_A/N:_ TOO MUCH _Harry Potter_ for Saphron, that's for sure. Mixed up Chamber of Secrets with Chamber of the Ordeal (or just The Chamber?) last chapter…teh. Ah well, read on, read on...

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**Chapter 10 – Apologies and Man-Hugs**

Alanna groaned as the morning sun crept through her gaping window and decorated the floor with bars of shadow and light, slinking upwards to prickle the tips of her eyelashes and force her rudely awake. Normally, she had no problems waking up with the dawn—she had been doing it for years, after all—but last night had not been a pleasant one.

After she had knocked out Jon and George both and stood smoking in the middle of the Rogue's bedroom, she knew she would have to revive them before heading back to the palace. Even though she was severely mad at the pair of them, she didn't have much of a choice but to wake them up. She dragged Jon onto the couch (Mithros he was heavy! Then again, dead weight usually was, no matter the size of the weight in question) and then turned her attentions to the thief king sprawled indecorously in a pile of dirty laundry socks and pick-pocketing utensils.

She couldn't just leave George unconscious on the floor of the Dancing Dove; he was a good king, and the people adored him, but the inn was still full of criminals and lowlifes. Lovable criminals, true, but all it took was one bad apple to spoil the batch of spiced cider.

Alanna would never forget the time during her page years that she had crawled into George's bedroom in the middle of the night to ask him to help her find a healer outside the palace for her female problems, only to find a pointed dagger slipped under the crook of her throat. He was more than surprised to find a wee young lad—who, he momentarily found out, was actually a wee young lass—but was always alert, always vigilant, for the day some uppity young sprat might come calling to challenge him to the throne.

It was never a wise move for a king to be left so vulnerable in his palace, and even although Alanna was furious at him for starting the fist fight with Jonathan—not to say she wasn't equally angry with Jon, who had arguably started it earlier by baiting the older man and tempting him to do it—she would never leave him so exposed and vulnerable. Anyone coudl come in and slit his throat if she just left him there unconscious on the floor.

Propping him up against the side of his favorite armchair, she bent down and winced to see the tattered collar of his shirt, cut crease on his lip, and most severe injury of all, a deep gash on his forehead above his left eyebrow. She took to healing that first, praying it wouldn't scar, before turning her attentions to his other, smaller injuries. But before she could broach the minor bruises on his knuckles she stopped, feeling dizzy. She had used an extraordinary amount of magic to break up the fight between them, and the honest to gods' truth was that she barely had a seed's worth left. She was entirely drained and this close to over-exerting herself—a fate she couldn't afford, not with all three of them passed out.

She took a steadying breath and sat down, resting for a moment to regain her strength. After a few minutes had passed she finally pulled herself to her feet and searched around for a means of waking the men up without using any more of her extremely depleted Gift. Finally she found was she was looking for in a small wooden box in the drawer of George's writing desk. (A box that thankfully didn't house George's infamous ear collection--a collection she had hopes of never seeing in person.)

She had felt vaguely bad for snooping around his private work area, but she badly needed what she was looking for, and she figured he wouldn't mind if she saw a few miscellaneous papers here and there. Mostly they were just maps of the city and letters from foreign rogue leaders or plans detailing how to distribute the acquired wealth among his men—though there had been _one_ paper in there that she was slightly disturbed to find. It was an extremely realistic and lifelike charcoal sketch of a girl dressed in a palace livery tunic, with short yet still feminine fluttering hair, large eyes, a pert nose, a confident grin, and a beautiful sword held in her right hand in front of her, as if she were ready to leap off the page and do battle at any moment. Alanna had hastily put it back where she found it, blushing fiercely and distracting herself by wondering how she never knew George was such a talented artist.

Placing the smelling salts underneath his slightly crooked noise, she heard him groan and mutter and finally come to. Blinking his hazel eyes awake, he looked up at her confusedly, "arhg…what 'appened, 'lass?" he whispered to her, pulling himself into a more comfortable sitting position.

Alanna sighed, plopping herself down next to him. "You got in a fight with Jon," she began explaining, "and punched him in the face. He, naturally, retaliated, and you two got into a ridiculous brawl. I swear you knocked over every breakable object in your room for Mithros' sake. So, well, I didn't have much of a choice…I kind of just waded in and knocked you both out with my Gift."

George blinked, digesting the details of the fight, and then looked curiously over her shoulder at Jon, who was sprawled out on the couch with one hand dangling off the edge and the other resting lightly on his chest—even in his sleep he looked regal. The thief sighed, as memories of their fight trickled into his brain. In retrospect, smacking the Prince to the Realm probably hadn't been the most intelligent move in his life, but if he had the same choice to make all over again he'd still have done it. No one got away with hurting Alanna, not on his watch.

As if reading his mind, Alanna interrupted him, stating squarely, "George listen, I know you meant well, but I don't need you to protect me. I can take care of myself, ok?"

"I know 'lass, but ye can' blame a man for wantin' t' protect th' woman he loves, can ye?" George responded plaintively to her, blinking his hazel eyes as if to clear them.

Alanna shifted uncomfortably where she sat—she knew, had known for awhile, that George had feelings for her, but they rarely talked about it so blatantly. He had been letting her know for months, of course, ever since she returned from the Tusaine War, exactly how he felt through small touches and eager glimpses, but he knew anything more might jeopardize their fragile friendship."George, I—"

"I know 'lass," George interpreted, "yer not ready for love, ye don' want t' settle down wit' a man right now, I get it."

Alanna's stomach positively squirmed inside her, knowing what she had to do next. "Well, yes, that's true…to an extent. I'm, I'm not ready for the kind of love _you're_ talking about—the forever kind. But, well, I have, I've, I'm—Jonathan—we're, I mean, we—"

George silently felt all of his internal organs collapsing as she hesitantly attempted to tell him what he already knew. His face burned, and his fists clenched subconsciously. A mixture of anger, resentment, embarrassment, humiliation, frustration, but overall simply despondent sadness, overwhelmed him like a flood, and he struggled to keep his voice level as she replied quietly, almost in a hoarse whisper, "I know 'lass. 'Bout ye an' th' Prince. Jon made it mighty clear."

Alanna wrapped her arms around her knees, not daring to look him in the face. "I'm sorry George, it just sort of…happened. But I'm happy with him, most of the time, truly I am. Please don't let this change things between us, I like things how they are."

"Don' worry. It won't. I won't let it," the Rogue replied in short, halted sentences. Suddenly the thief pulled himself to his feet, stifling a groan and offering her a hand up. "Yer a tough lass t' get over, but I suppose I will eventually."

Alanna shifted her weight guiltily as she accepted his hand up. Why did she feel like she was doing something terrible and betraying her thief friend? It was a silly thought—she had never promised him _anything_ in the way of love, she had been very clear about that. Then why did she feel so bad?

_Because you knew how strongly George felt for you, and instead of giving him space alone for him to get over it, you kept visiting him, kept hope alive in him…_ a tiny voice whispered nastily in the back of her mind. But she squashed that voice down—she had bigger problems to deal with at the moment.

George had turned gruff and practical as he began cleaning his loft, sweeping broken glass into a pile and picking up throw pillows off the floor. "Ye best wake up th' Prince an' get 'im outta 'ere," he quipped brusquely.

"Are you…are you OK?" She asked him hesitantly—his sudden change in mood from sad to curt registered to her that something was amiss with him.

George nodded his head quickly, feigning nonchalance as he wiped his sleeve on the corner of his eye while facing away from Alanna. "'Course," he replied tersely, "just a bit o' dust in me eye. Mind waking up th' Prince now? I really need t' clean m' place."

Alanna dropped the subject, realizing she'd wouldn't get another word out of him and scared that even if she could she wouldn't want to hear what George would say. Or do. Tears made her uncomfortable—she had spent years repressing them in order to fit in with her male peers—and she didn't quite know how to handle people being so upset. She knew George's pride would never allow him to let her see him cry, and she decided to respect that. Things were awkward enough already, and perhaps it was best to leave unspoken what would make them both uncomfortable.

Leaving George's side for the Prince's, she repeated the process of holding the smelling salts under his noise, until Jon coughed and gagged himself awake. The salts had a stronger effect in him, probably because he was less used to them than the Rogue, whose business revolved around all sorts of such common means. The Prince grew up sheltered in the palace—he had probably never been knocked out in his life, and consequently, had never had to be revived by smelling salts the way George most likely had before. For a moment Alanna was worried she had overdone it on the salts, but soon his eyes stopped tearing and he was able to breath normally again.

"Wha—what happened?" he croaked, still in a daze.

Alanna sighed and repeated to Jon the entire story; she felt like she was experiencing_ déjàvu_. He took a moment to digest the details of the fight the same way George had, and then, in a move that Alanna had not anticipated, stood up and approached the Rogue.

Alanna jumped warily to her feet—they _better_ not start fighting again! She didn't know _what_ she'd do if they did, she was entirely drained of her Gift and felt exhausted to her core. There was no way she'd be able to interfere again without killing herself in the process, and besides which, it would just be absurd to have revived them only so they could start beating each other up again.

But to her pleasant surprise, Jon's hand was held out in front of him in the form of a handshake, not a fist. He was looking the older man squarely in the eyes, radiating vibes of muted dignity. "I'm sorry George," he murmured, "I shouldn't have baited you like that. I know how you feel—and I'd wager you know how _I _feel by now—and I know it's, well, a little awkward, to say the least. I guess we just can't help having good taste in women," he added with a faint smile.

George set down the broom he was holding and matched the Prince's gaze. For a moment he just stared at him without blinking, as if appraising the younger man's apology and looking for gaps in sincerity. Jon's hand waivered slightly where it hung alone in the air, wilting, and the smile slipped from his face in a droop. He was about to sigh and retract his arm, when out of nowhere George's large hand enveloped Jon's in a gruff handshake. "'Pology accepted, mate. An' I'm sorry too fer hittin' ye like that, I shoulda used m' words, not m' fists."

Jon grinned at him, and George grinned back. "Er, are we supposed to hug now?" The Prince asked wryly, shattering the intensity of the moment with a dash of comedy.

"I guess we can," George grunted back, "but only if it's a short one."

The two men hugged briefly, pounding each other on the back before leaping away awkwardly—but both were smiling, and it was clear that order had been restored. Males in their society were conditioned not to show too much affection for each other, but they had been friends for years, and a hug at the moment seemed more than appropriate.

Alanna sighed happily as she hopped off the arm of the couch where she had been sitting and clapped her hands together in front of her, surprising the two men who leaped at the sound and turned to face her, looks of astonishment plastered across their faces, as if they had forgotten about her presence in the room all along. "_Well_," she said merrily, "now that _that's_ taken care of and you two lumps are friends again, I think it's time for Jon and I to be hitting the road. It'll be dark out soon and I want to get back to the palace before nightfall."

Both men spared a glance back at each other before ruefully replying in sync together, "Yes, Alanna."

All three laughed, as Jon swept over to the couch to gather his belongings. George retrieved his broom, shaking his head as if to say, _Mithros, what a crazy day…_, and Alanna yawned, feeling the onslaught of fatigue overwhelm her from the harried afternoon of conflict resolution and magic expenditure.

Jon took the lead in saddling Moonlight and Darkness both as Alanna leaned against her mare's flanks. Mirthros she was sleepy…so very sleepy…

They rode silently back to the palace, though it was a fairly comfortable silence, all things considered. She knew she would need to have a little talk with him later about his behavior and the nasty jealous streak that flared up in him on occasion, but that discussion could wait until tomorrow. For now, they were content to ride quietly through the palace gates, and hand their horses off to the palace hostler (Jonathan, as a knight of the realm and the crown prince, had that right where Alanna did not, but seeing as his square was with him at the time, it was considered acceptable for Alanna to do the same and let someone else take care of Moonlight.)

When they entered their shared rooms, Alanna struggled to pull off her clothing before collapsing in bed. Even though he himself was dog-tired, Jon helped tug off her boots before climbing in next to her. The last thing he heard before he drifted off to dreamland was Alanna muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, "thank Mithros you two made up…mm, man-hug…"

**Saphron  
**

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_A/N:_ Mm, short 'n sweet chappie…hope you enjoyed it. 


	11. Chapter 11: The Squire Swap

**A Torrid Affair**

**By Saphron**

_A/N:_ Ok, I hope I'm getting the squires/knights pairings right, I don't have my books with me to check. As far as I remember, it's Gary/Sacherell, Raoul/Douglas, and Alex/Geoffrey? Is that right? (Anyone else of importance I should know?) Someone **PLEASE CORRECT ME** if I'm wrong!!!

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**Chapter 11: The Squire Swap**

"It didn't work!" a shrill vice snapped in frustration, echoing around the tiny chamber room.

"I'm aware of that," another voice replied dryly, concealing the thin note of sarcasm that lingered beneath the surface of his words.

"I don't understand what happened!" The first, distinctly feminine, voice wailed plaintively. "I practically _threw_ myself on him, but he just, just slipped away! He was completely uninterested in sex with me!"

The second voice was laden with an unnerving calm as it replied, "then we need a new strategy. Think, Delia, what does the Prince care about most? What can we get you involved with that will affect him?"

"I don't know…he likes horses, and swords, and shiny bits of armor, all those sorts of normal manly things…"

"Hmm…perhaps the question isn't 'what' then, as opposed to 'who,'" the Duke of Conte murmured, steepleing his hands in classic parody of an evil villain. Except for the fact, of course, that he really _was_ an evil villain.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, my pet, think about who he spends all his time with…"

"His parents, because his mother is so sick thanks to your efforts?"

"No…"

"His friends then, he's always laughing with Sir Gareth and Sir Raoul, and even Alex when you tell him to go make nice to the Prince."

"You're getting warmer, but guess again…"

"…his squire?"

"Precisely! Haven't you noticed lately? Prince Jonathan spends practically every waking moment by his damn squire's side—Alex reported to me yesterday that he saw the pair of them ride towards the city together on Alan's first day off from probation. They eat, train, and keep each other company constantly, but most importantly, remember the last ball? He left you—easily the most beautiful woman in the room—on the dance floor by yourself just to follow his squire out, I observed the whole thing."

"Mirthros…you're right Roger!" Delia breathed (silently glowing at the praise of being called "easily the most beautiful woman in the room"), "I was wondering why he left so suddenly, but now that I think about it…he left right after Squire Alan did…"

"Exactly. And as we're already well aware, Squire Alan does not trust us. He is a very real danger to our plan, my pet, in more ways than one. We need to find a way of separating them, and of learning his weaknesses."

"However shall we do that, Roger?" Delia asked eagerly, keen to carry out whatever brilliant scheme Duke Roger had in mind to secure them both the throne.

"Through a two-pronged attack. Divide, and conquer, as they say," Roger grinned, his sharp canine teeth glistening in the firelight.

"What do you mean?" Delia pouted, jutting out her lower lip in confusion. Roger was always so vague and cryptic, it really drove her mad sometimes.

"Well," the older man smiled evilly, "come closer and I'll tell you…"

--

Alanna steadfastly plowed into her fishsticks and fried potatoes (only the best cuisine for the squires of the realm…not), ignoring the chattering of her fellow squires around her who were all busy discussing palace gossip. Currently, the juicy rumor of the week centered on her very own knight-master, and why he had walked into the Great Hall yesterday with two fiercely bruised black eyes. They had faded considerably by dinner-time, probably, the squire's speculated, due to Duke Baird's tender care (the healer couldn't have attended to them in the morning since, as everyone knew, he was busy with the Queen, who had fallen into one her minor bouts of illness again)—but the fact still remained that someone had dared hit the Prince to the Realm in the face, a crime that was punishable by imprisonment and possibly even death if the Prince so ordered it. Who in their right mind could be so stupid?

Jonathan had been obviously silent on the subject, lightly playing it off as if everything was perfectly normal, and no one dared press him for details. Instead, everyone had tacitly pretended his face was fine—and instead turned to his squire to plague 'him' for information.

"Come _on_, Alan, we know you know!" Douglass begged, backed by a chorus of eager voices from his fellow squires. "Just tell us already, mate!"

But Alanna ignored his request, continuing to eat her dinner stoically as if he hadn't just poked her in the rib with the butt of his breadstick. "I already told you Douglass, I'm not talking about it. It's Jon—I mean, the Prince's—private business, you should respect that. And get that damn breadstick away from me or I'll stick it up your—you-know-where."

"But someone hit him in the face! I mean, how could that have happened? Who in the hell would have the balls to do that?" Sacherell piped up, joining the fray, as Douglass hastily withdrew his breadstick.

Alanna grumbled in annoyance; why did her fellow squires never listen? She would take her knight-masters' secrets to her grave before she'd ever reveal them to a group of overly curious gossipmongers! "How about this guys, I'll tell you how the Prince got his face bruised if _you_ guys let me do the same to you with Lightning on the training courts!"

That got them to back off readily enough. "Awww, Alan…fine, be that way," Douglass whined, turning his attention to Geoffrey instead, "care for a breadstick war, mate? _En guarde!_"

As the topic of the Prince's pair of black eyes faded from the limelight, the conversation soon turned to the upcoming ball in celebration of Jonathan's birthday ("hopefully his face will heal completely before the ball, could you imagine having two black eyes on your birthday, even faint ones?" Douglass shook his head at the thought.)

But even though the subject was marginally more cheerful, Alanna still wasn't interested in listening to Douglas bet Sacherell that he could dance with twice as many beautiful ladies, and if he won Sacherell would have to muck his horse's stall for a week with nothing but a kitchen spoon, but if Sacherell won, he would have to declare his undying love to the seventy-eight year old palace librarian. She had much bigger things on her mind—like the serious discussion she had had with Jon last night.

She had woken up after riding home from the Dancing Dove still exhausted from the amount of magic she had had to expend, and consequently had been quite terse and grumpy in the morning when Jon wanted to talk to her and apologize for being so jealous. She had told him they'd talk later, and then spent the rest of her day nodding off in mathematics lecture and dropping the book off her head as she practiced walking in a straight line during etiquette class, too tired to bother to hold it up properly. Even her favorite training classes, like Shang-Do and archery, had been unbearable in light of her exhaustion. (Shae had even commented on the dark circles under her eyes, suggesting a "soothing mix of aloe vera, apricot extract, and red clay" for them which apparently "did wonders for one's complexion!")

Thus, she had waylaid the much-needed conversation with Jon until the night, last night, when they had finally had it all out about George and how he played into their relationship. For despite the fact that she had tried to ignore the Rogue's presence in their dramatic little love triangle, the fact was that he was there, and they needed to work out what that meant for their torrid affair.

Alanna, obviously, didn't want anything to change—she liked things the way they were, and there was no way she was going to give up her friendship with George just to satisfy Jon's jealous streak. But relationships were about compromise and mutual respect, and it had become abundantly clear to both of them that if she didn't agree to certain guidelines regarding George, things were just going to get out of hand again.

So, they had talked. They had talked about the fact that yes, George liked Alanna, and Alanna could understand that Jon felt threatened by that, but he needed to trust her and accept the fact that they were going to remain friends. Alanna, in turn, had to respect Jon's wishes not to visit George during the night (which she silently thought was rather silly, seeing as if anything non-platonic was ever going to happen between them, it could just as easily happen during daylight hours as in the dark, but she didn't think it'd be wise to point that out to Jon) because it made him uncomfortable (even if he did trust her).

Jon, also, had to learn to control his jealous streak ("I'm sorry, I know I can be possessive sometimes, it happens when you're an only child and heir to a throne…" he has said last night, to which she had replied, "that's a stupid excuse, but I guess I forgive you…"), and Alanna had to agree to come to him first when she had a problem, instead of shutting herself off, either literally (as in, locking herself into the bathroom or riding into the city after the ball when she was upset with him) or emotionally (as in, going to George for comfort instead of discussing things with Jon first.)

Alanna had also added that he was limited to _two_ dances with lady Delia per ball, period, which Jon had more than readily agreed to—lately, he was even more annoyed than Alanna with the vacuous court beauty who night and day plagued him begging for his attentions. (The other day he actually saw her prowling around the training courts spying on him as he practiced sparring with Alex; the woman was just creepy like that…he couldn't believe he ever actually courted her before.)

Alanna had hopes that since they both readily agreed to these new "groundrules," their relationship would soon start improving. Which was perfect timing, because there was yet another large ball coming up (there was usually at least one big one per season, and this time it was Autumn's turn—namely because the ball was in celebration of the Prince's August birthday), and never was Alanna more satisfied to know that Jon, at least, would spare her the sight of dancing with Delia four times in one night. Especially since that night happened to be his birthday, and the last thing she wanted to do was fight or get mad at him on his birthday.

Consequently, she wasn't paying much attention to her surroundings when a troop of knights ambled into the dining commons, choosing seats at the squire's tables instead of at the knight's table. Occasionally a knight would join his squire for a meal, and if it were a particularly important knight (namely, the Prince), then all the other squires would be on their best behavior during dinner and stop goofing off with one another making ridiculous bets and tossing fried potatoes into each other's hair. It was odd, however, that such a large group of them had all decided to join them at one time.

"Good evening, your Majesty, Sir Gareth, Sir Raoul, Sir Alex," the squires greeted the knights dutifully, though some chose to say Sir Raoul before Sir Gareth, or Sir Alex before Sir Raoul, or even your highness instead of your majesty, thus jumbling the names all together so not a single one was discernable. The squires shared a nervous laugh—yes, they trained under their respective knights on a daily basis, but that didn't mean it wasn't nerve-wracking to have the older men—men whom they practically hero-worshiped—alighting all at once to their table for dinner.

"Hello lads," Raoul greeted them on behalf of all his fellow knights, "mind if we join you?" The squires murmured their consent, squishing their chairs closer together to make room, but no one was stupid enough to complain vocally about that.

The squires all glanced at each other nervously, but Gary took the initiative in putting them at their ease. "Don't look so scared squires! Mithros, we're just a couple of knights, not a roving band of flesh-eating ogres." The squires laughed nervously, but did their best to plaster comfortable smiles on their faces. Gary plowed on, heedless to the squire's thinly placated anxiousness, "we just popped by to say hello, see how things are going with you lads. We realized that although we each see plenty of our own squires, we never get a chance to hang out with anyone else's squire, and seeing as we're all on the same side and all bound to be knights together one day fighting those very same roving bands of flesh-eating ogres, we thought it'd be a good idea to get to know some of the, well, lesser-known squires."

Raoul nodded in agreement, adding on, "so here's the plan—we're going to switch squires for a week!"

Jaws literally dropped at the older knight's proclamation; Alanna dimly registered the clattering sound caused by several spoons slipping from people's hands and crashing into the fishsticks on their plates.

"What—what do you mean we're switching squires for a week?" Alanna asked hollowly, eyes automatically making a beeline for Jon—this could pose some serious problems for her disguise if she had to spend too much time with a different knight...

"Just as it sounds, Alan!" Gary replied cheerfully, "For one week you'll all be doing your squarely duties for a new overlord and training under him on the practice courts and what have you. Lessons will go on as normal, but you'll move some of your things into your new knight-master's rooms and bunk with him for the week. Isn't this a great idea? Alex came up with it during his last border patrol, and we thought it'd be the perfect time to implement it!"

Inwardly, Alanna groaned as she shot a meaningful look at her knightmaster. She observed that he looked distinctly uncomfortable with the idea as well—she thought she noticed the corner of his eye twitching at the thought—so why wasn't he say anything? Why was he allowing this to happen? He was the Prince for Mithros' sake, he had the power to stop this!

But Jon remained silent as Raoul filled the rest of the squire's in on the logistics. They all seemed keen on the plan, buzzing eagerly with barely contained excitement as the knights left the table, chatting with one another over who they hoped their new knightmaster would be and how fun and exciting it would be to live in each other's shoes for a week. ("I hope I get the Prince for my new knightmaster! That would be so awesome!" Douglass expressed eagerly, as Geoffrey shuddered at the thought, "Mirthros, I don't--that's way too much pressure! You'd have to be on your best behavior all week, who would want to deal with that?")

Only Alanna remained quiet on the subject, silently contemplating how dangerous it would be for her to actually live in another knight's rooms for an entire week—what if he walked in on her changing, or bathing, or in any other similar state of undress? This 'Squire Swap' was putting her disguise at great risk—she couldn't believe Jon was allowing it to happen!

Resolving to ask him as soon as dinner was over, she tucked into her cod with unusual gusto. Wolfing down the last of her potatoes, even the burnt ones, she practically bolted from the table as she made her way out of the Great Hall and towards her rooms. She didn't care if she had to twist his arm to get him to tell her what was going on, _someone_ had some explaining to do…

**Saphron**

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_A/N:_ Ok, inspiration for this idea seriously struck mid-chapter; originally I just had the knights coming in to sit with the squires in order to point out that Alanna wasn't paying attention to her surroundings because she was too busy thinking about George and Jon. But then, like a lightning bolt, the idea just zapped me and I decided to run with it! Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I think it's quite a creative concept…I mean, there have been tons of A/J fics, and I'm sure plenty of Jon-George fights and what have you, but have you ever heard of a "Squire Swap?" I don't know, maybe you have…definitely point out any fics that have a similar concept, otherwise I'm just going to sit here and indulge myself in reveling in my own creative brilliance, haha…(thank you muse of fandoms!) 

Btw, two interesting things: 1) Ogre in German means "man-eater;" Tamora Pierce's German editors wanted to change the word to something else but she refused, not knowing what it meant. Later, she found out its true meaning (which was totally against her portrayal of ogres) and wished she could have changed it! (I read about this on Wikipedia, trying Wiki-searching TP lol). 2) I was totally thinking of "I Love Lucy" in that last line there, as in, "Lucy...someone had some 'splaning to do!" haha. (Please tell me you know Lucy from 'I Love Lucy'? Good grief.)


	12. Chapter 12: Princely Probation

**A Torrid Affair**

**By Saphron**

_A/N:_**WARNING** more _**sexually explicit**__ language/imagery_ in this chapter, read with caution at your own risk! (Seriously kids, remember chapter 8? It's chapter 12 now, which means it's time for a little more smut to spice things up…tehe.) If you are easily offended/shocked by _sexual content_, please leave now. It's ok—in fact, it's more than ok, it's perfectly wonderful—to be innocent (an innocence I do not wish to defile), so don't feel bad if you chose to leave, 'k darlings? Thanks a bunch.

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_PS_: When did ALEX almost kill ALANNA during their "friendly" fencing competition? Was that _before/after_ the events of this story? I feel like it was before, but I can't be sure...**_SOMEONE PLEASE HELP!_** Thanks in advance!

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**Chapter 12: Princely Probation**

"How in Mithros' name could you allow this stupid 'Squire Swap' to happen?" Alanna practically yelped at the Prince to the Realm, surprising him half to death as she burst into his room like an angry wolf who had just found her tail on fire. She had just come from dinner where Gary and Raoul had announced, much to her dismay, that everyone would be swapping squires for an entire week—an idea she was currently freaking out over with untold alarm.

"Alanna, I—" Jon started, only to be cut off mid-sentence by his raging squire. When Alanna was in a temper, there was really little anyone could do to stop her. She was like a hurricane in that respect, or some other larger-than-life force of nature that destroyed defenseless homes and left hundred-year-old trees uprooted in its wake.

"No Jon! No excuses! Don't you see what a bad idea this is for me?"

"Alanna, I know, but—" Seriously. Hurricane Alanna, he might as well re-name her.

"No buts Jon! You have to stop this mad idea! My secret could be discovered! Don't you care that--"

"ALANNA!" Jon interrupted, placing a firm hand over her mouth to shush her, "will you please be quiet and listen for a moment?"

Alanna glared, but apparently decided to respect his request, nodding gruffly beneath the mask of his hand. She would have preferred to continue her diatribe, but a royal order was a royal order.

"Obviously, I know how terrible this is for you, for both of us," he sighed plaintively, "I mean besides the fact that we risk the chance of another knight finding our your identity, there's also the little matter of me not being able to see you, or share a bed with you, for an entire week. That's clearly not an idea I relish very much."

Alanna blushed—she loved how he used "we" to say that "we," not "you", but "we" risked exposure—not to mention his noticeable sadness about not sharing a bed together for so long, though whether he was referring to actually _sleeping together_–sleeping together, or simply sleeping together, she couldn't tell.

Secretly, however, she agreed on both counts that it wasn't an idea she relished either; she had gotten used to the warm comfort of Jonathan in bed beside her, whether or not they were merely sleeping or rather doing something else entirely, and she knew with a sudden pang that she'd miss him terribly for the week they were separated. Sure, she'd see him around the palace—but it wouldn't be the same. She wouldn't be able to lay in his arms at night after they just made love; she wouldn't be able to indulge in their nightly pillow talk, whispering secrets and rambling nothings about the various events of their respective days; and she wouldn't, she hated to admit that it mattered, but it did, she wouldn't be able to be pleasured for an entire week either. The mere thought was maddening.

"But, unfortunately, I don't have much of a say in the matter," Jon continued grimly, his face puckered in unpleasant consternation.

Alanna snorted in disbelief; what was Jon talking about? He was Prince to the Realm for Mithros' sake! "What are you talking about Jon?" She asked him incredulously, repeating the thoughts in her brain aloud, "you're Prince to the Realm for Mithros' sake! And it's almost your birthday, surely you can order about anything you want! Including canceling this stupid Squire Swap!"

"Well," the Prince replied ruefully, "here's the thing…I'm sort of, ah, grounded."

Alanna's eyes narrowed, "what do you mean, _grounded?_ What in Mithros' name does _that_ mean?"

"Well, it means I'm on Princely Probation. No leaving the palace, no parties until my birthday celebration, and most importantly of all, no giving any royal orders. At all. None. Not a one. See, my parents weren't exactly thrilled to find out I had been fighting—the black eyes kind of gave that away, y'know—and, well, they got a little…miffed…over it. They gave me this whole lecture about how I should be more responsible, as their only heir it's my duty to protect my person at all times, street fighting is totally dangerous and completely unacceptable, if I feel the urge to fight I should do so with my peers under the supervised guidance of a training master, yadda yadda…"

Alanna's jaw positively dropped in surprise, "but, but, you're a fully ordained knight of the realm! You can fight whoever and however you want! Can your parents really _do_ this?"

"Um…yeah," Jon responded dryly, "it doesn't matter that I'm a fully grown knight--they're _the King and Queen of the kingdom_, Alanna. They can pretty much do anything they want."

"But-but—you're the _Prince!_"

"Doesn't matter, King and Queen trump Prince," he shrugged, "comes with the territory of having royal parents."

Alanna slapped a hand to her forehead, groaning in dismay—she knew Jon's fight with George would have serious repercussions!

"But there's good news at least," Jon piped up, making a stab at sounding light and cheerful.

"What could possibly qualify as good news?" Alanna grumbled.

"Well, my probation ends on my birthday in a week, the same day the Squire Swap ends and we get our squires back…so at least we can be together for that!"

Alanna sighed; that was his definition of 'good news'? Jon had a lot to learn about placating her, that was for sure. It wasn't his fault though, she decided, that he couldn't order away this ridiculous idea of switching squires for the week; he had a point that the King and Queen were the ultimate authority on anything in the Kingdom, including how they chose to discipline their son.

It looked, therefore, like she had no choice in the matter but to accept the inevitability of the Squire Swap. She would just have to be extra careful around her temporary new knightmaster, and only change her clothing when he was asleep, for example. In the meanwhile, she'd make the most of her brief time left that night with her poor Prince on probation—a prince that could no longer order her about, courtesy of royal decree by his parents.

Suddenly, an idea struck her, and, deciding to channel all her aggravation over the upcoming Squire Swap into a more productive use of her energy in order to at least get something good out of this whole mess, she strode over to Jonathan and stared squarely up into his sapphire-blue eyes, grinning wickedly at the crazy idea that suddenly lodged itself in her brain.

Jon blinked back at her, a little off-put by her sudden change in demeanor, not to mention the fact that she was standing mere inches away from him where she had momentarily been across the room.

"Fine, if you have to be grounded and restricted to your rooms, then we're at least going to make the most of it," she said huskily, dropping her voice an octave lower. "You are now going to give me the world's most amazing back rub, and then do whatever else I tell you to do, got it?"

Jon quirked his eyebrows at his uppity young squire—she had never talked to him like this before! "Oh-ho," he replied lightly, "I am, am I?"

"Yep," Alanna nodded vigorously, tugging on the laces of his tunic. "And there's nothing you can do about it!"

Jon grinned as he watched his lover rifle her hands over his chest in an excitedly domineering way; normally he was the one to take charge in the bedroom, but he now found her newfound assertiveness surprisingly sexy. Teasing her lightly, he quipped back, "I think you're missing the point of the princely probation, dear—_I'm_ not allowed to give any royal orders, but that doesn't mean other people can give royal orders to me!"

"Wanna bet?" Alanna asked coyly, reaching to unbuckle the belt cinching his pants to his waist.

The breath caught in Jon's throat as her nimble hands moved downwards. Mithros! He didn't know how much longer he could pretend he wasn't game for this new turnaround in their bedroom affairs, "that—that doesn't even make sense…" he chocked out, "there's…ah…nothing…to bet…"

"Jonathan," Alanna whispered, "shut up, get on the bed, and do exactly as I say now, please."

At those last few incredibly heated words, Jonathan complied, too stupefied to do anything otherwise. With Alanna by his side and ready to have her way with him, not even the prospect of princely probation seemed all that bad at the moment…

--

Alanna cursed as she flew down the palace corridors, practically knocking a messenger livery to the floor as she bolted past him. She didn't bother helping him pick up his formerly teetering stack of papers, though normally she'd never be so rude—but today she was late for her early morning training lesson with Shae!

The reason she was late, of course, was that she hadn't gotten much sleep last night…not much sleep at all. Deciding to turn a bad situation into a good one, she had spent the better portion of the evening playing with Jon and teasing him mercilessly in bed, ordering him about and commanding him to do whatever she wished. She had started out lightly, demanding he rub her shoulders or kiss her neck on her favorite spot right beneath the ear, but then progressed to something much more intense. She could still taste the feel of riding him from a position Jon later informed her was known as "girl-on-top"—a position she enjoyed very much.

With him beneath her, she could command the entire scene. She liked the idea of being able to control exactly how deep he was inside her, and how rapid their rhythm would be. She had alternated between leaning down to kiss him, letting her pleasure spot grind into his taught body, and leaning back with her hands near Jon's legs, instructing him to touch her womanhood while she continued riding him faster and faster.

Jon, in turn, had certainly enjoyed relinquishing control to her newfound assertiveness in bed, as well as the wonderful visual it gave him of Alanna's pert little breasts bouncing in tune to her lively movements. At one point however, he absolutely couldn't take it anymore, and, sitting up and wrapping his strong arms around her, he pulled her to him as close as she could possibly get, so they were in the incredibly intimate position of fucking while sitting up.

Alanna had rolled with it, wrapping her legs around Jon's waste and hips with him still inside her, pulling her arms around his neck and running her fingers through his messy jet-black hair, brushing her nose along his as she gazed smolderingly into his eyes. They moved together, sometimes kissing hotly, letting their moist breath tickle each other's lips and tongues, sometimes pulling away to simply fix their eyes on one another's, mixing passionate purple with sultry sapphire…

The sex had been, in a word, _thrilling_. For both of them. Jon had shuddered in delight when she came, arching her back against the pressure of his palms, throwing her head back and moaning in pleasure, tugging so fiercely on the back of his head that he saw stars—it had been incredible to be so close to her as she reached that climax, to hold her in his arms as she shook from head to toe. He felt as if the orgasm flowed through her and into him from every square inch of their skin pressed together in the cozy warmth of his bedroom. And when the last wave had finally rolled over her, living her limp and panting and leaning on his chest for support, her head tucked in the crook between his neck and shoulder, her arms slipped beneath his and wrapped around the bottom of his back, her butt resting lightly in his lap, her breasts pushed against his hard chest, her lips murmuring something inaudible as he stroked the locks of her coppery hair…he knew, with blinding clarity, he knew, that this was true happiness.

They had settled together in the comfort of each other's arms that night for the last time in a week—tomorrow they would have to part, but for now, they would save the night.

**Saphron**

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_A/N:_ Aww, sappy sweet smut, my favorite kind… 

_PS:_ You guys have been great on the reviewing so far! I don't really have a strict quota, but it's definitely more encouraging for me in general to post when i see that enough people have read the last chapter and are ready and waiting for the next one, if y'know what I mean shrugs.

_PPS_: That line--"save the night"--comes directly out of a song, "Save Tonight," By Eagle Eyed Cherry. Yay pop-culture references! And don't forget to tell me about Alex!


	13. Unlucky Chapter 13: Rainy Thoughts

**A Torrid Affair**

**By Saphron**

_A/N:_ **Thanks** for answering my Alex question guys! Now the second thing **I need your help** on: should change _the rating_ from T to M? The sexual nature of the story clearly says "yes," BUT—there's always a BUT—I've been debating with myself over that because FF.N automatically shows only K-T fics on the main page—_you have to manually change the search criterion to K-M if you want to view others._ Most people won't bother, they'll just go to the main page and read whatever is there...which means **if I change the rating, there will be a LOT less visibility for this fic**, fewer people reading and reviewing and enjoying it, and (in my humble opinion), that's just sad (because I'm convinced this fic is at least marginally worth reading, though as the author I am by definition biased lol). Dilemma, dilemma, eh. _What do you think?_

_Also: _we've crossed the 100 review mark people, oh glorious day :-D_  
_

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**(Unlucky) Chapter 13: Rainy Thoughts  
**

Alex trailed his fingertips along the water-droplets bubbled on the rusted railing, observing emotionlessly that the only thing separating him from a hundred foot drop to his death was a thin metal bar designed by gods-knew-who what incompetent metal-worker. He was standing on the top of the north tower under a slight overhang, though the ferocious winds that whipped all around him made sure he still got plenty soaked. It was a ridiculous place to be, really, cold, and wet, and potentially dangerous. But lately Alex felt like it was the only place he could score a measure of privacy…and right now, he just needed to think.

And what he was thinking about was, of course, Duke Roger. (Lately it seemed like that's _all_ he ever thought about…wasn't that the very definition of 'obsession?') The man who had been his knightmaster for over three years, the man who had taught him how to wield a sword and how to cast the most powerful of magical spells, the man whom he admired and respected above any other male figure, including his own worthless father—yet also, terribly, the man who was asking him to betray his King and commit high treason.

The Duke was out for the throne—he had never said it to him out aloud, but Alex wasn't stupid. He could see that Duke Roger had plans for the kingdom; plans that didn't include King Roald or his son. And slowly, very slowly, over the years Roger had been working on Alex, gradually getting him used to the idea and recruiting him for his cause.

Alex hadn't realized that's what he had been doing at first, of course. Roger had simply started our small, making light barbs of Roald's kingship ("my, my, 'the Peacemaker' doesn't seem to have much political clout when it comes to military affairs, does he…"; things like that), but he had then progressed to suggesting that he'd make a much more competent ruler ("if _I _were king, _I _would certainly invest in a mage's university that could rival that of Carthak! It's terrible how under trained our mages are…") Finally, he had made insinuations about how he always amply rewarded loyalty to him—and punished disloyalty even more ("Delia has been such a pet to me these last few days Alex, I bought her a new mare to express my appreciation and made sure she got included in the Queen's private luncheon today with a duchess from Tyra, such connections are good for the girl. Of course, she was acting rather pouty this morning, so I may just have to let the Tyran Duchess accidentally overhear how Lady Delia got warts from kissing a toad…")

All of these comments were innocent enough, Alex rationalized—if it hadn't been the for the telltale sign of the Duke _constantly_ asking him for information on the Prince, or even on his lowly little squire. ("So who are Jonathan's closest confidants, Alex?", "So is Alan truly the best fencer of all the squires?", "Just out of curiosity Alex, but do you happen to know if the Prince has any deadly food allergies? Peanuts, perhaps?") The man was nigh _obsessed_!

When Alex had tentatively questioned his former overlord about his constant probing, Duke Roger had craftily avoided giving any sort of direct answer, smoothing his words with unctuous spoonfuls of honey that coated everything he said with the infamous Conte charm. So Alex had dropped the subject, knowing he'd never get anything out of the older man. But he kept reporting random bits and pieces of information to him nonetheless…he just kept telling himself that it was harmless to do so (what he didn't technically know, after all, couldn't technically make him feel guilty…)

Scraps of information, really, stuff he wouldn't even consider worthwhile except for the fact that the Duke seemed to think so. Data like, Gary and Raoul thought Jonathan was crazy for abandoning Delia at the last ball mid-dance, or that Jon and Alan had ridden to the city together on Alan's first day off probation. Trivial details of daily palace life, but details Roger seemed to feed off of like a hungry parasite sucking its host dry.

Whatever other explanation could there be? No, Roger had never told him explicitly that he was planning to usurp the throne, but Alex could formulate an educated guess.

The only question that mattered now then was—which side did he fall on?

He had been friends with the prince and the others—Gary, Raoul, even Alan—since they were pages together, though they had grown apart over the years. Truthfully, he hardly considered them close companions anymore—Duke Roger was definitely his best friend in the palace, if he were to use such cheesy terminology—but that didn't mean he felt _nothing_ for his former peers. They had trained together, ate together, suffered at the hands of jousting instructors and etiquette masters together, laughed with each other over how hopeless they were on the dance floor, and shared their youth together, twenty four hours a day, three hundred and sixty five days of the year. And although they had lost touch recently, that wasn't a bond that was easily broken.

And the King—Alex didn't have any particularly strong feelings towards the King one way or the other. He thought Roald was decently competent as a ruler—he wasn't a tyrant, after all, nor was he entirely a meek little mouse, despite Roger 's less than flattering impression of him. The Queen, too, he felt ambivalent about, not particularly caring if she lived or died.

The only member of the royal family that he remotely cared about, besides Roger of course, was the Prince, and even that was a shaky sort of caring. He hadn't ever been quite as close to Jonathan as the others; being of the solitary, somewhat anti-social sort in general meant he hadn't really ever been as close to any of them as they had been to each other. And Alex always felt more than a tiny seed of resentment for the arrogant young man who walked around as if his shit didn't stink like everyone else's—did Jon even _appreciate_ how lucky he was to be born a prince? Alex doubted it very much; it seemed to him like the cocky little prince took his royal birth pretty much for granted.

And it was annoying how everyone lavished so much attention on him. Alex was just as handsome, just as smart and talented, just as skilled a fighter and mage—more-so, actually, on both counts—as the Prince, yet all his talents hardly mattered when contrasted against Jonathan's noble pedigree. The very idea was maddening, to say the least.

But did that mean Alex wanted Jon _dead_? The idea seemed more than a tad extreme. He wouldn't have minded one way or the other if the Queen's perpetual on again off again illness finally did her in, or if Roald suffered a fatal hunting accident. But did he want Jon to suffer the same fate? It was hard to imagine a life without the Prince…

And what of his squire? Roger seemed almost as obsessed with Alan as he did with Jon, and that was truly saying something. Alex and Alan had never been particularly close, however, or at least, they hadn't been since he became Duke Roger's squire. Alex could remember Alan being friendly enough when he was a page—sometimes he'd even help the lad out with his mathematics homework—but Alan never seemed to take a shining to the Duke the same way others did, and his relationship with the Duke's then-squire had consequently suffered. Now they were cool to one another, perfectly civil but not exactly chummy. The time Alex accidentally almost killed him during a 'friendly' fencing competition probably didn't exactly do wonders for their relationship either…he still couldn't explain what had happened that day, his memory was hazy and at best he could recall coming out of a foggy daze as if he had been bewitched, which, of course, Alex knew enough magic to know he _had_ been. Duke Roger—who else could it have been?—had spelled him to kill Alan on the training courts.

But why would the Duke have done that? Didn't he care that Alex would have been arrested and imprisoned on the spot for such a crime? How could Roger do that to him?

No, perhaps Roger hadn't meant for Alex to kill Alan after all…maybe he had spelled him for some other reason, to make Alex fight as hard as he could in order to test the boy and see how good a fighter Alan really was…there was no way Roger would actually sacrifice him like that…it was just his paranoid imagination running away with him…

But what if it wasn't? Duke Roger depended upon, enjoyed his company, and gave his aid to him—but that didn't mean he was entirely trustworthy. He didn't confide in Alex—the sign of a true friendship—and he had a cruel streak in him that left Alex wondering sometimes if the sorcerer was as actually deserving of his respect as he thought. People who crossed him had a nasty tendency to disappear—and Alex didn't want to be one of those people.

Was it worth it to stick by his old friends whom he no longer knew very well at all, was it worth it to stick to the honorable route of the Code of Chivalry? Doing so meant abandoning the one person in the palace he was actually close to, the one man who could teach him everything he ever wanted to know about swords and magic, the one man whom he respected and admired above everyone else…not to mention the one man who would reward him amply for his loyalty, imbuing him with the _de facto_ power he always craved…

Rainy thoughts that day, rainy thoughts indeed.

**--**

"Alex _please_, be a pal…" Gary begged, trotting along in Alex's wake as the two made their way to his father's office. He had bumped into Alex at the base of the north tower ("Mithros Alex! You're sopping wet! What were you doing out in the rain? Didn't have time to take a proper bath this morning?") and fell in line with him, seeing as they were heading to the same place. Running into him had actually been a struck of good luck, Gary had soon realized, as it gave him the opportunity to implore Alex to help him.

"No, Gary, it's not happening, sorry," Alex responded, shaking his head. Mithros, Gary could be annoying when he chose. Was he really worth protecting?

"Aw c'mon! You _know_ how much I've always wanted him!" Gary continued pleading, clearly refusing to give up so easily. His footfall matched the steady sound of rain beating outside against the castle walls, which, Gary thought with a note of bemused irony, perfectly matched his mood: grumpy. Rainy thoughts that dripped with grumpiness! "But of course Jon got him, since he's the bloody _Prince_."

"Do I detect a note of bitterness there, Gary?" Alex scoffed, "Tsk tsk, you shouldn't be jealous of your cousin, you know." _There's already another cousin whose filled **that** role_, Alex thought dryly to himself.

Gary grumbled, "I'm not jealous, it's just not fair…"

"Life's not always fair, Gary," Alex shrugged (_and boy do I know it_, he couldn't help but think to himself). "And you're not getting him. It was my idea for the whole thing, therefore, I get to chose who I want first. Why don't you just switch with Raoul, Gary? I've sure that can be fun for your little foursome."

Gary groaned as he followed Alex into the Duke's study—maybe he could plead with his father! Except when had Duke Gareth of Naxen _ever_ allowed his relationship with his son to influence an administrative decision? No, Duke Gareth the Elder had always been maddeningly fair in treating Gary like just another one of the boys, and if anything had probably over-compensated a wee bit to avoid nepotism by punishing him extra hard when he got in trouble. Gary had little hope that today would be any different…

"Now, the knights I'm sure have already filled you in on the plan," Alex and Gary walked in to hear Duke Gareth addressing the sea of squires stuffed into his office. Between every squire in the palace and their respective knightmasters, there was barely enough room for everyone to squeeze in—vaguely Gary wondered why they weren't conducting this meeting in a larger space, say, the grand ball room, for example.

(Unbeknownst to him, the ballroom was not available for meetings since it was busy being decorated for the upcoming celebrations of the Prince's birthday, and the Great Hall was closed during non-sanctioned meal times to give the cooks and kitchen helpers a chance to clean up after the swarm of hungry soldiers decimated the room with their food scraps and dirty boots. The training courts were the only other large enough space inside, but Shae was busy training the pages in there during the early morning lesson period, and it was pouring outside in torrents, vetoing the option of using the outdoor archery or jousting fields. The stables _may_ have theoretically been able to house them all, but there was no way Duke Gareth was going to administer an official palace issued meeting four feet away from a pile of horse dung! No, unfortunately, his tiny study was the only conceivable option; luckily, squires were still scrawny little scraps, and they could squeeze together like sardines just fine.)

"So now all that's left is to give you your new knightmaster assignments!" Duke Gareth continued, finishing with a resounding flourish that echoed around the tiny chamber and caused a dither attack among the excited squires who instantly broke into a fierce tide of whispers.

Only Gary was silently glowering in the corner—apparently the assignments had already been made, leaving no hope that he could nab his father for a quick chat to try and convince him. When had that happened? He and Raoul and Alex had discussed who they'd want to switch with, and Alex had told them he was going to get first pick since the whole thing was his idea. But Gary thought the rest of the knights would have the opportunity to at least pick second, or third, etc., and give their preferences…but apparently, that wasn't the case. It looked like his father had just randomly assigned new squires without their say…so not fair.

"Douglass and Sacherell, you two will switch knightmasters"—the pair of them high-fived happily, pleased to have been paired up with knightmasters who they already knew decently well, not to mention the fact that after Jonathan, the next two most popular knights were easily Gary and Raoul.

"Timothy and Richard, you two will have Sir Daral and Sir Nathan, respectively," the Duke prattled on, as the wave of fierce whispers—("quick Richie, what's Sir Daral like? I heard he's kind of strict…please tell me that's just a palace rumor!" Timothy asked fiercely in the quietest whisper he could muster. "Oh yeah, Daral is like a drill sergeant, I swear sometimes he's worse than our training master! Get ready to do a lot of push-ups in the morning, mate," Richard replied, causing Timothy to groan in displeasure.)

"Casey, Gabriel, you know the drill—Sir Chung and Sir Sayshu for you two…" And so on and so on, until finally only two squires were left—Geoffrey and 'Alan.'

"Alan, I'm sure you'll enjoy the company of Sir Alex for the week, and Geoffrey you lucky boy, you better be on your best behavior with the Prince," Duke Gareth concluded, wagging a warning finger at Geoffrey who was grimacing in anxiety. "All right, now that you've all gotten your assignments, please head over to your rooms and pack your belongings if you have not already done so. There's no need to move every object you've ever owned, just take what you'll need for a week, clothing and toiletries and training weapons, etc. Then you may unpack in your new rooms, and head over to the Shang-Do training courts. You're all fortunate to have missed mathematics lesson this morning, but you better be on time for your martial arts lesson, got it! Alright, squires dismissed."

The squires squeezed out in a bottleneck, still eagerly exchanging worthwhile information with one another ("does Sir Sayshu like to write love poetry? Because Sir Chung always asks for my input on his poems for the ladies, I've gotten pretty good at rhyming 'your lips are redder than a rose' with 'they've pierced my heart with arrows!'" Gabriel sighed plaintively.)

Only one squire didn't seem very pleased; no, not very pleased at all. As the lone-red head in the room fell into the back of the crowd, she couldn't help but wonder what new trials and tribulations the week would have in store for her…a week that had started off distinctly cold and gray…

**Saphron**

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_A/N:_ I'm amused by the coincidence of this being Chapter 13, the mythical "unlucky number," given the particular subject matter, lol. So--change the rating? Thoughts, opinions? 


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